


Protegus

by imprint_of_a_doe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-08
Updated: 2011-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-25 20:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imprint_of_a_doe/pseuds/imprint_of_a_doe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a shop which Draco Malfoy is far too curious about; there’s a war Astoria Greengrass doesn’t understand; there’s a second chance Harry Potter is willing to give. There’s a history, a past, a present, a future. A beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protegus

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's [HD Canon Fest](http://hd-canon-fest.livejournal.com/), 2011.  
> Prompt: 3 words: star, know-it-all, beginning  
> Warnings: Het! Epilogue compliant, to a point. Uh... non-depicted violence?

-x-

 ** _Protegus_**

-x-

The shop is clean but for the woodshavings on the floor, soft underfoot as they catch on hemlines and laces. On nice days, sunlight streams through the windows and billions of dust motes become visible. They dance merrily when disturbed by patrons sweeping through no matter how many Vacuuming Charms are cast in vain attempts to capture them.

I stare in through the window whenever I pass, wondering what the semi-empty shop is doing in Diagon Alley. I only ever see people just walking in before they disappear into the back room--and I don’t know what goes on there. Millicent has thought about going but she refuses to tell me what the shop is or what they sell. It’s a trade of information, she claims, and I’ve nothing worth her curiosity.

I don’t even know who runs the place, because it certainly can’t be the lanky, blank-faced girl at the counter who bats her eyelashes every two seconds. She never goes into the back when I peer in.

Every time, I wonder whether I should just go in and inquire; the sign over the door simply says _‘Protegus,’_ and all I can come up with is that the store specialises in protective objects. Though why the front room should be empty if that’s the case, I haven’t a clue.

It’s not helpful that I’m going into Gringotts four times a week to meet with our solicitor and a Ministry representative trying to collect reparations. I think the small shop is a distraction from stress--that I might be curious and divert my attention to wondering what goes on inside, rather than remembering all the figures and arguments of the meetings. In a way, it’s protective just to think of it, and this intrigues me.

Slytherins, though, do research before stepping into a situation. Slytherins plan and plot. And, yes, I could be a perfectly ordinary person and ask the girl at the counter, but... I’m not perfectly ordinary, am I?

No, _I_ am Draco Malfoy, of the Malfoys-Who-Followed-Voldemort, the young man with a nasty skull on my forearm and a nastier disposition when people snub me for it--which is really becoming an all-too-common occurrence. Soon enough they’ll start to think I’m always like this, and they’ll be right.

‘Are you listening to a word, Draco?’ The witch at my side flips her hair back over her shoulder imperiously. _She_ is Astoria Greengrass, and she might be the one chance my family has at redemption.

A Slytherin family without loyalties in the war, the Greengrass clan had been known for their sophistication and remained reasonably well-respected. The only problem is that I just don’t find Astoria interesting, no matter how much of an effort I put into it.

‘What do you suppose is in there?’ I finally ask, gesturing over my shoulder to the shop. ‘Do you know?’

Frowning, she glances back. ‘No, I’m certain I have no idea. I suppose you were distracted by it yet again?’

‘I just want to know.’ I rub at my wrist self-consciously, a nervous habit picked up when Aunt Bellatrix broke it during her stay at the Manor--though Healed by Mother a day later, I can still recall the sharp prick of pain shooting up my arm. ‘I hate not knowing.’

‘That’s because you’re a know-it-all.’ Astoria pauses, glances up at me, and lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow. ‘ _And_ a busybody. You make it your business to know everything you possibly can.’ She smiles at me and, well, she isn’t terrible as far as future-wife-material goes, but....

‘I am not a know-it-all.’ I lift my chin, haughty, mildly offended though I know it’s certainly the truth. ‘I am at perfect liberty to wonder whatever I please. Sometimes knowledge is worth the trouble one goes through to earn it, Astoria.’

Her smile morphs from teasing to slightly sympathetic. I wish she’d stuck with the former because pity is something my pride will never let me accept. ‘Don’t,’ I warn. ‘You’re right and we’ll leave it at that.’

We sweep silently down Diagon Alley, watched by passerby who turn to stare at us, by children who somehow know not to spill ice cream on our robes, by the wide eyes of the owls in Eeylops’.

The Leaky Cauldron is full for a Thursday at mid-afternoon, patrons laughing and chatting and drinking together despite the early hour. The barman glances a us, pauses, and ducks behind the counter, popping back up with two glasses and a bottle of wine. I shake my head and step up to one of the fires.

I escort Astoria home and spend an hour in the company of Mrs Greengrass, Ms Greengrass, and a house elf who looks just as pleased as I am to be there. By the time I leave, I’m rather tired. If this match goes through, I predict the rest of my life will be spent in this listless state. It doesn’t bother me as much as I might have once imagined.

-x-

 _Protegus_

1\. After _Protego_ , defensive spell  
2\. Protect us?  
 ~~3\. Prodigal of protection?  
4\. Pro of tegus? what the fuck is ‘tegus’?~~

I stare at the list I’ve penned before squeezing my eyes shut. This is getting ridiculous.

‘Mr Malfoy, please have your solicitor look over the new contract and let us know if it appears to be reasonable.’ I look up at the Ministry representative. Her orange robes clash horribly with her skin-tone, making her look washed out in a way that adds years to her round face.

‘Of course,’ I say coolly, flipping my notebook closed and stoppering my ink. ‘Thank you for your time.’ _Daft bint._

She’s not, not really, but as time passes I feel inclined to take out my frustration with her employer on the woman herself.For three years, my solicitor has been able to predict these moods and has managed to avoid opportunities for my temper to snap. So far.

‘I look forward to hearing from you about the new settlement. Hopefully this is to your satisfaction.’ She nods at us, gathers her folders, and sweeps from the room escorted by a goblin.

My solicitor stands and begins to do the same, tapping his papers on the table to even the edges. I’ve noticed he doesn’t use magic for the small things; it annoys me more than it should. ‘I shall look this over tonight and firecall you tomorrow to discuss it. Good day, Mr Malfoy.’

I shrink my notebook and swing my cloak over my shoulders. It’s colder this week, which I usually appreciate, but Gringotts is chilly even on the warmest of days. The goblins glare at me as I exit the meeting room and emerge in the lobby, shaking my head and attempting to shrug the stress off my shoulders.

It’s only as I’ve just passed _Protegus_ that I realise who is standing outside of it, conversing casually. I look back, blinking, watching as Loony Lovegood and Millicent Bulstrode smile at each other. It’s not just unsettling--it’s _odd_ , not least because Millie has never said a word about Loony Lovegood since school ended, if ever.

Tempted to turn around and join their conversation, I hesitate from my place across the street, observing.

Millie nods, accepts a scrap of parchment from Lovegood, and reads it before shoving it into her pocket. They shake hands and--Lovegood disappears inside _Protegus._

‘Millicent!’

She jumps, startled from her solitude, and stares at me with dark eyes. ‘What’re you doing here, Malfoy?’

‘Why are you talking to Lovegood? What does she have to do with _Protegus_?’ I demand, ushering her back as a cart is pushed past us.

‘Who says it’s your business?’ She folds her arms stubbornly, shifting her weight to one leg--and it doesn’t help that she’s nearly as tall as I am and is much stronger physically. It’s never helped.

Still, I know curiosity and I know persistence. I also know Millie, much as she hates to admit it sometimes. A quiet girl in school, she is now confident in her place. After much effort on the part of her family, the Bulstrodes are back up in the social sphere and Millie is at school training to become a solicitor herself.

I purse my lips at her and copy her stance, aware that I might look ridiculous and rather hoping nobody notices. ‘What’ll it take?’

‘You’re not bribing me.’

‘Millicent.’

‘No, Draco. Go ask for yourself.’

A frown crosses my face, creasing my brow as the corners of my mouth turn down. ‘But...’

‘It’s nothing to be afraid of,’ she says, pulling her cloak around her more closely. ‘I’ll see you at Pansy’s next Thursday. Are you bringing little Greengrass?’ Millie’s expression is one of distaste; I’d spent a few hours, once, trying to come up with explanations other than the obvious.

I nod, sighing. ‘My mother insisted.’

‘Bit of a Mummy’s boy, aren’t you?’

Before I can respond, she’s walking backwards--away from me--smirking as she disappears into the crowd.

-x-

My solicitor has finally agreed with the latest proposal from the Ministry, though it’s rather humiliating. Mother just sighed and turned to finish cataloguing the items in the house. Father had been another story entirely--I left the room rather than stand there and listen as the solicitor was dragged over hot coals.

Possibly literally, poor man. I don’t feel all that much sympathy, but I might be rejecting reality again.

Thursday night rolls around just in time to provide some small vestige of relief. Pansy greets me with her usual as I step through her Floo, kissing my cheek and squeezing my hands. ‘How’ve you been, love?’

I shrug, glance back around the room as the Floo lights again. Blaise lounges on a chaise in the corner nearest the liquor cabinet, dark and exotic in the firelight as he plans. We’d been friends when we were younger but the war tore us apart. It’s only Pansy’s influence that slowly mends that bridge. Theo Nott and Tracey Davis, recently married, are sprawled on sofas whilst Millie argues with that Smith prat Pansy has taken interest in. It’s all the usual crowd, numbers far reduced from our school days.

‘Oh. Astoria.’ I close my eyes briefly before turning to greet her; Pansy’s look of dissatisfaction is both amusing and familiar, as obvious on her face as in her voice. She extends her neck gracefully and years of acquaintance tell me she’s biting her tongue.

‘Pansy, how good to see you. You’ve lost weight.’

I step forward quickly, before Pansy can pull out her wand and hex the girl. ‘Drink?’ I ask cheerfully, carefully, brushing Pansy’s hip as I focus on Astoria.

Astoria smiles at me and places her hand on my forearm, letting me lead her across the room. ‘Charming, isn’t she?’

I raise an eyebrow as I pour a finger of whiskey for myself. ‘I wouldn’t tempt her. You should know from your sister how volatile she can be. Prime example of a Slytherin woman, that one.’

She waves me off, surveying the room. Judging, I know, and I can’t do a thing about it. ‘Oh, pish. I was in the same House, Draco. Anybody could handle her.’

I disagree. After all, I’d tried dating Pansy, hadn’t I?

Her presence puts a slight damper on the usual tone to the evening. Thursdays are reserved for gossip and trading stories, for drinking and Apparating to a club or another society party. We each have our place, our order, and Astoria throws everything off.

When Blaise joins the central group, he finds her in his spot. His eyes narrow and I silently plead he’ll keep quiet. Her voice gets quite shrill when she’s arguing, which I’m positive she will do if prompted in any way.

Unfortunately--for me in particular--I don’t get a moment alone with Millie. She smirks at me from across our circle until I can’t stand it anymore. A lull in the conversation and--‘So, Millicent, are you going to tell me what this whole _Protegus_ thing is about?’

Slowly, she lowers her glass, eyeing me with disapproval as Tracey turns from Theo, interest in her eyes. Just as I expected. _‘Protegus?’_

‘I saw her talking to Loony Lovegood on Friday out front,’ I add.

Relying on the curiosity of my friends does not disappoint me. ‘Isn’t that the shop in Diagon Alley?’ Pansy asks, frowning in thought. ‘I haven’t had a chance to go in. Is it worth it, Millie?’

Millicent sighs and leans back further into the sofa cushions. ‘I enjoy it.’

Theo takes a cue from his new wife to join in. ‘What do they sell? Should we have put them on our gift registry?’ He grins, flashing the plain gold band on his ring finger about. I snort at the reminder--as if anyone needs it, what with the way he and Tracey haven’t stopped touching for a moment tonight.

‘I don’t know if they do gifts,’ she answers.

‘What do they do?’ I finally ask, aware that she’s trying to avoid real answers.

Blaise looks between us and then back to Millie, waiting. Flustered, she swirls the brandy still in her glass and pushes her hair back, lips pursed.

‘They--’

‘Oh, don’t encourage it, Millicent. That’s all Draco’s been on about for weeks. He pays more attention to that damn store than he does to anything else lately.’

Astoria sits, arms crossed and eyebrows drawn, to my left. I turn towards her, frustrated. ‘Perhaps I’d stop being interested if I knew what it was?’

‘Is that all it takes to get you interested? Mystery, Draco? An unanswered question? A, Merlin forbid, _challenge?_ ’

I blink at her. This feels decidedly like an attack on my character. And I’m not a bit pleased about it. Criticism has never rolled off of me like it does for some people--rather, I tend to respond defensively, lashing out. She should know this about me by now.

It’s just... well, it’s Astoria. I think about Mother as my fingernails dig into my palms, think about the family name and the fortune that will soon be dwindling. Can I stand up for myself here, or am I held back by the fact that this woman--no, _girl_ \--is quite possibly the only chance I’ve got?

Pansy is the one to respond first. ‘Well. Isn’t this a little lovers’ quarrel. Seems a little one-sided, don’t you think, Zach?’

Smith watches, a smirk across his face that I want to hex off. ‘Are you talking about the quarrel or the relationship?’

Astoria’s face transforms into a snarl. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I was just wondering,’ he says, shrugging and placing a hand on Pansy’s thigh. There’s delight all over his face.

‘It’s obvious why you were Sorted Hufflepuff, then, isn’t it?’ Astoria snaps.

And there it is, that little bit of strain. Nobody here wants to think about House divisions. It makes us remember the war, forces us to acknowledge there are fewer Slytherins here than there should be, because pride is and will always be our downfall. We can’t afford to judge anymore, we all know this. Except _she_ doesn’t. And she won’t, because even if she was at Hogwarts during that time, Astoria wasn’t _involved._

Not the way I was. Not the way Pansy wanted to be. Or the way Theo refused. She _can’t_ understand. She doesn’t belong here.

-x-

It’s the final meeting at Gringotts. I’m waiting in the lobby with my solicitor and a goblin, ready to go down to my family’s vault and watch a third of the contents disappear. The third had been agreed upon because, really, Father was the only one who had actually chosen his lot in the war. We were lucky, really, to only be losing this much--especially because Father’s sentence had been light, a minor seven years of house arrest with probation.

I’m glad that I won’t have to deal with this any longer. It hasn’t exactly been the highlight of my day to be sitting in the cold, tunnel-like rooms of Gringotts, listening to people arguing above my head. Now I might actually be able to spend my days elsewhere, though I’ve no proper idea what I can fill them with.

To my surprise, it’s not the same Ministry representative who walks through the doors; instead, it’s a head of bushy brown hair and sleek robes pressed to a feminine form. Hermione Granger, one third of the Golden Trio, looks harried and tired. She’s also ridiculously pregnant, judging by her stomach. Or maybe she’s just gained weight. Spotting us, she hurries over. I bite my tongue to hold back any of the obligatory insults that spring to mind.

‘Solicitor Burke, Mr Malfoy.’ She gives no indication that she recognises me even as she shakes my hand. I feel rather snubbed, though I suppose in her position I’d likely ignore my former tormentor as well. ‘Ragnok.’

The goblin grins at her, toothy and a little menacing. ‘Ms Weasley, so good of you to return.’

‘Shall we?’ Granger--she’ll always be Granger to me, no matter who she marries--is brisk and effective. I dislike her manner, as I always have; I’m losing parts of my ancestral fortune, after all, and she could at least be sympathetic.

She’s a true Ministry hag now. I wouldn’t have thought it, righteous as she had always seemed. The Ministry hadn’t exactly been crystal-clean after the war. Our interference had only encouraged the corruption that was already at the roots. Why Granger wants to be there, I’ve no idea.

I follow the goblin into one of the tunnels, clambering into the cart and remaining silent. Granger doesn’t speak; instead she stares around her with shadowed eyes, a hand resting on her full stomach, both protective and habitual. The Malfoy vault is fairly far underground and our trip takes us deep into the catacombs. Granger freezes up when we pass under a waterfall and remains tense the rest of the way down.

‘That isn’t harmful at all to, erm, children in the womb?’ she voices tentatively.

The goblin shakes his head. ‘Just the Thief’s Downfall. As you should well know from past experiences, or so I’m told.’

I find it amusing that I can see her face flush in the light from our single lantern. Apparently the stories I heard about the Golden Trio’s activities during the war were at least partially true.

Once we reach the vault, all I can do is stand back as a few goblins carefully arrange the third they’ve sectioned off for the Ministry. Granger signs the paperwork once more before I step forward, take the self-inking and magically binding quill from her, and hesitate, my hand hovering over the document. My solicitor nods at me and I close my eyes before signing.

Instantly, the gold disappears from the vault, and, whilst it’s far from empty, it is more so than I have ever seen it.

‘I think that concludes our purposes today, unless Mr Malfoy would like to make a withdrawal.’ I shake my head, leading the way back out to the cart to wait. Granger settles next to me, uncomfortable, and we ignore each other on the ride back up to the top. It’s only as I’m exiting Gringotts after shaking hands with my solicitor for the last time that she gives any sign that she remembers our school days.

‘Malfoy.’

I pause, glancing back to see her trailing me. She’s slowed by the extra weight of the child within her, eyebrows furrowed, but she looks no less persistent and annoying than she had years ago. ‘What?’

Granger steps up next to me, straightening her Ministry robes. They’re a pale blue, pretty against her skin, much as I dislike admitting it. ‘I should think you’re wondering why I showed up today.’

‘Not particularly,’ I answer, turning to continue walking. She keeps up with me, of course, and I shove my hands into the pockets of my unclasped robes. ‘Should I? Be wondering?’

‘I suppose there’s no real reason for you to be concerned,’ she concedes. ‘I heard you’ve been asking around about _Protegus_.’

I stop in the middle of the street, staring at the back of her head suspiciously until she realises I’ve halted and turns back to face me. ‘How’d you hear that?’

‘I was at Mungo’s last night meeting a friend and heard Tracey Davis--or is it Nott now?--talking about it with Bulstrode.’ She shrugs, but her eyes are far too shrewd. ‘I was curious about why you hadn’t gone in and just asked.’

Uncomfortable, I narrow my eyes and draw myself up to my full height. ‘It’s really none of your business, Granger.’

Her hair seems to crackle with a scary kind of electricity as she glares at me. ‘Right, then. I’ll just be taking my leave.’

A crack of Apparition and she’s gone, along with yet another chance to learn about the damn place.

I really despise my instincts sometimes.

-x-

 _Protegus: people in the know_

1\. Millicent ~~and damn her for not telling me~~  
2\. Granger ~~not going down that road~~  
3\. Lovegood ~~why are these all women? and where the fuck would I even find loony?~~

I stare at the list. It’s rather short. And the only person I regularly talk to is Millie, who is doing a damn good job of avoiding me since Pansy’s last week. This Thursday has been cancelled since Pans is out of town, in Nice with Smith, and Tracey has a night shift at Mungo’s.

I sigh, letting my head fall back against the arm of the couch. I stare up at the ceiling of my flat, unremarkable though it is. Curiosity really is getting the better of me; it’s ridiculously close to obsession-level, and I hate that.

In all honesty, I like knowing things. Knowing things can save my life, as I learned all too well during the war--being aware of when Aunt Bella would be home was a top priority for me if I wanted to avoid ‘spell practice’ with her. I’ve always had a taste for learning, coupled with an insatiable curiosity that has gotten me into trouble more times than I care to remember. When my life started depending on how much I knew, it just became habit.

But I will not allow it to become an obsession. I won’t. My last obsession hadn’t turned out too well and this one won’t be any different.

Narrowing my eyes, I gather all my notes on _Protegus_ and Summon a random text from my office to stuff them in. I Banish it to my old room in Malfoy Manor.

I still doesn’t know what _Protegus_ is, but I’ve decided it doesn’t matter anymore.

Astoria will be happy, at least.

-x-

‘Excuse me, Mr Malfoy, but Ms Gamp is ready to see you now.’

I stand and brush my hands down the front of my fitted trousers, de-wrinkling my jumper in the next sweep. The welcome-witch leads me back down a short hallway. One side is glass, looking out on the city below. I stare, nervous and determined, before nodding to the witch and stepping through the door she holds open for me.

‘Ah, Mr Malfoy.’ Priscilla Gamp stands to shake my hand, smiling at me with something like mingled suspicion and interest. ‘You wrote saying you had a proposal you wished to discuss?’

I take the seat across from her desk. ‘Yes. Could I possibly get a cup of tea before we begin?’ We wait quietly as one of the assistants bustles in, glaring at me as he sets up the tea service; I stare out the window while we wait.

It’s not until after my first sip that I proceed. ‘I wondered how many people have come forward to write a history of the Second War.’

She frowns, shifts in her chair, and sets her cup down. ‘Well, a few have offered, but so far none have completed anything of merit. We are a textbook publishing company, obviously.’ Sharp eyes survey me as she steeples her fingers on the desk. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I might be interested in writing one and was curious about the likelihood of your accepting it for publication.’

Gamp’s eyebrows lift before she composes herself, adjusting her glasses as she does so. ‘What makes you take an interest, Mr Malfoy?’

I sigh, reach down for the packet of papers in my bag, and set them on the desk between us. ‘I have a long memory and writing facts down is something I do often. I am also aware that no other Ex-Death Eaters have my skill with a quill, nor the desire to expose what went on in the Dark Lord’s ranks during the war. If you’re worried about it being one-sided, I could include interviews and information from sources who fought for the Order as well, or I’d not be opposed to a co-author.’

Technically, I don’t have those sources yet. I’d rather not have to co-write it, but I intend to if she seems at all amenable to the idea. There’s really not much I can do with so little influence here... so little influence anywhere.

Judging by the look on her face, she might be considering it. ‘Your skill with a quill, you say? Did you happen to bring a sample of writing?’

I lean down again to pull out a folder, which I hand to her before sitting back gain. ‘Essays and papers from Hogwarts, replicated before I turned them in. There’s also a few sample pages of the manuscript I’m talking of, so you may recognise my current style as well.’

Gamp makes a slight sound of interest, pulling out the pages I mentioned and reading through them quickly. ‘Well, at least you have basic skill with grammar and the like. Not too dry, despite the fact that it will be a history book.’ She looks up at me. ‘I’m not quite sure if seven years is enough before publishing a history of the war.’

‘If not now, then when?’

Besides, I need something to do. And writing this might keep me occupied for a while.

She sighs. ‘I’ll schedule a meeting next week for you. I’m not guaranteeing anything, but we’ll see how things progress from there.’

-x-

I start writing everything I recall of the Death Eaters’ perspective. Some memories are hard to write, either because I know these people will resent me or because they’re memories I wish didn’t exist. I don’t like acknowledging my mistakes as a teenager, but everyone around me can’t stop and I’m not allowed to forget.

Astoria hates that I’m doing this.

 _‘It’ll destroy what’s left of your reputation. And yours is pretty much tied to mine now, so I’d appreciate it if you lied about your involvement.’_

 _‘It’s taking time away from us.’_

 _‘All you do is write that bloody thing or scribble down notes on dinner serviettes.’_

It’s true that I spend most of my time writing or thinking about the book, but I’m holding onto the hope that getting it all down on paper will get it out of my head. Having held these memories for years without relief from their oppressive presence, I’m determined to finally be done with it in any way that I can.

She doesn’t understand. I’m staring to think she won’t ever comprehend anything about the war, what it felt like to be involved, that ever-present fear and worry, what it did to our society.

But she _should_ understand. The Wizarding world can’t ever go through it again, and hopefully writing this out for future generations will prevent it from ever occurring. Hopefully.

I groan and push away from my desk. The lighting in the room is faint, the source a flickering blue-green flame I’d conjured in the floating glass ball next to me. A clock ticks loudly as I stretch, crack my neck, and set my quill down.

Pansy sleeps in the armchair by the fireplace, a glass with a single sip of wine dangling precariously from her fingers. I get up and gently remove it, setting it on the mantel before crouching down next to her again. Her hair is frizzy, fringe sticking to her forehead, and her eyelashes flutter against still-damp cheeks.

I really do want to hex Smith until his balls are attached to the bottom of his feet. The bastard hadn’t really needed to treat Pansy so carelessly when he called it off. Not that she’d let him see her hurt--from what she’d said before finally crying herself to sleep, she’d fired curses at him until she heard the pop of Disapparation, the git’s form nearly invisible through the haze of spell-light and what she thinks might have been feathers.

My best girl, through and through.

‘Pans,’ I whisper. I push her hair back, watching as she tries to turn away from me in her sleep. ‘C’mon, Pansy, bedtime. There are pillows and soft sheets....’

She blinks at me, half-awake, eyes lidded. ‘You don’t mind if I stay?’ She’s quiet, weary, and I remind myself that getting her settled is more of a priority than stalking Smith down and using what I’d learned during the war and since tried to forget.

I smile at her, standing up and holding out a hand. ‘You just think to ask this after countless occasions where you’ve crashed on my couch?’ Her returned smile is small and apologetic as she grasps my hand and lets me pull her up. She’s too thin, I decide as I escort her towards my bedroom. I’ll have to start watching her eating habits again, maybe get her to Mungo’s with me for a check-up as well.

She starts to undress as I slip into the bathroom for a cold flannel. By the time I get back, she’s crawling under my sheets in her underthings. She looks far too sad to be my Pansy. It’s not like her to get this upset over a relationship, considering most of them before this were one-offs or flings in school. Our brief relationship belonged in the latter group and is probably one of the reasons Astoria dislikes her.

I sit down on my side of the bed and extend the flannel to her; I know well-enough that she’s trying to keep some small semblance of pride and letting me wipe away tears pushes her limits. She takes it and presses it under her eyes, a heavy sigh escaping.

‘Why was I crying over a Hufflepuff? Do you think the waiter spiked my drink with an Emotional Enhancement potion tonight?’

Shaking my head, I take the flannel back from her and lean down to kiss her temple. ‘You’ll forget all about it by tomorrow. Or I’ll go after him myself.’

Pansy smiles, already turning into the pillow, hand curled around the edge, and I watch my best friend for a moment.

I’m fiercely protective of the people I love. Pansy is one of those few, probably always will be. She’d nearly joined the Dark Lord’s ranks in order to be with me and make sure I was safe. Stupid, but then that’s all friendship and love do to a person--take intelligence and rationality, roll them up in a nice, neat little ball, and bin them.

As I get ready for bed, I think about Astoria. In all honesty, I don’t feel much for her. On occasion, I like her company, but on the whole... I don’t think we can understand each other. At any rate, I can’t see myself feeling about her like I do about Pansy.

It’s also unfortunate that I know I can’t tell her I prefer cock and would only marry her to improve my family’s social position.

Fairly certain no girl would like that. No fault of Pansy’s.

If I’m going to put up with a woman for the rest of my life, though, I don’t want an empty relationship. It’d probably be better in the long run--she wouldn’t have to concern herself with my sex life outside of our marriage bed and I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about finding my pleasure elsewhere--but... I don’t know if I can do it.

God damn my father for getting us into this, for influencing me.

And fuck me for being stupid enough to get involved with the Dark Lord.

-x-

Astoria is none too pleased to Floo over the next morning and find Pansy and me sitting in my living room in pyjamas as we plot out her vengeance on Smith. It probably has something to do with the fact that Pansy is wearing one of my shirts only partially buttoned up.

It really is rather unfortunate in this instance that the woman I’m aiming to marry doesn’t know I’m gay.

Her eyes can be pretty, but right now they’re glacial. I feel like I’m on the receiving end of a Freezing Charm meant specifically for my balls. ‘So,’ she simpers. ‘Giving pity fucks now, Draco?’

I stare at her, eyes narrowed. It’s almost hard to believe Astoria is the poised society darling. _She_ doesn’t use language like this, isn’t this petty. Only her talent for gossip remains from that girl at this moment. She’s obviously heard about Pansy and Smith breaking up.

Pansy sits up in her chair, folding her legs under her and raising a hand to hold the conversation up. ‘Now wait just a minute, Greengrass. First of all, I don’t need pity. I’m taking care of this whole Smith cock-up with Draco’s help. Secondly, he wouldn’t touch me sexually unless he’d been Imperiused.’ Her eyebrows are arched, scorn clear in her expression and body language. She considers this her second-home, as is evident by her level of comfort and familiarity.

Sighing, I slouch back on the sofa and rest my eyes. I’d rather not be here between them.

‘He wouldn’t touch you sexually because you’re naught but skin and bones, Parkinson. Eating disorder, isn’t it?’

I react quickly, reaching for the wand on the floor and firing a Shield Charm between the two. Pansy isn’t calm anymore, not after that, and I’m not best pleased Astoria went there at all. But she smirks, standing unruffled on one side of the charm, victorious.

In that moment, I want to let the charm drop and smile from the edges as Pansy kicks her arse. I can’t do that--there are times I wish I wasn’t the only Malfoy child, times I wish I had no need for a wife and child and Salazar knows what else. Self-sacrifice should be impossible to understand for a Slytherin, but family pride forces my hand.

‘Pans...’

‘Don’t, Draco. This bitch can’t go around holding that over me. And she can’t honestly think she’s going to win when it’s not even a competition.’ Disgust wars with dislike on Pansy’s face. ‘Honestly, we’re all losing. I’ve just had my engagement called off, you’re not going to be happy with anyone your parents like, and she’s probably going to--’

A Silencing Charm cuts her off. She gapes at me, outraged, as I rub at my temples.

‘Probably going to what? Let her say it, Draco. I want to know.’

‘No, you don’t,’ I assure her. ‘Believe me.’

‘Draco.’

‘Drop it, Tori.’

 _‘Finite Incantatum!’_

I look up, panicked, and Pansy’s voice tunes back in at full volume. ‘--you fucking arsehole, you--’ She takes a deep breath, stares right at me. ‘He’s _gay_ , Astoria. So you and I and every other woman in the world loses against that.’

There’s silence. I can hear Pansy panting, but Astoria is as frozen as me.

Swallowing, I carefully focus on my best friend, suddenly wishing for one moment in time in which she simply ceased to be. I quickly rescind the thought--I adore Pansy, I do, even when the dozy cow drives me round the twist. ‘Thanks, Pans. Appreciate that.’ My voice is dry but even.

She tosses her dark hair and sinks back into her armchair, regarding the shattered remains of her cup on the floor with a sneer. ‘Oops.’

‘Oops? How articulate. You’ll be cleaning that up, you know.’

A small noise draws my attention back to Astoria, who still stands in shock, staring at Pansy. Reluctantly, I stand and pull her toward the sofa. She stumbles along, seemingly unable to do more than blink at me as if she’s seeing a Thestral for the first time. It amuses me, slightly, and I should feel bad about that.

‘Gay.’

I shrug and rub at my wrist, trying not to smile and failing as her eyebrows drop down in confusion.

‘You’re gay. You’re... bloody hell, you’re attracted to men?’ The pitch of her voice increases drastically and I stop fighting it: I laugh. Apparently, judging by the Stinging Hex that has me gasping in the next second, it’s the wrong move.

Pansy Vanishes the fragments of her cup and joins the conversation. ‘He is,’ she confirms, crossing her legs. ‘Pussy terrifies him.’

Astoria’s nose wrinkles with distaste. I suppose I can calm down now that she’s offended by vulgar language again. She turns to meet my eyes again.

‘What the hell are you doing with me then?’

I sigh. ‘Probably has something to do with the fact that the Malfoy name is tarnished and needs polishing with a nice, respectable marriage for their son?’

She purses her lips at me, unimpressed. Her fingernails are fascinating, I decide, staring at them. ‘So you intended to propose to me, marry me, and never let on that you prefer... men?’

It really doesn’t sound all that wonderful when she says it out loud like that, but it’s the honest-to-Merlin truth. In order to repair my family name, I’ve got to marry someone of good reputation, someone pureblood, someone who can give me heirs to carry on the Malfoy name. Honestly, it’s not that I really want to, but I can’t escape my duty to my family. It’s all I’ve ever had and letting it go is nigh impossible.

If it means proposing to Astoria, I’ll do it. I won’t enjoy it, but I’ll do it.

‘I might have told you at one point,’ I hedge, glancing at Pansy. ‘Not like this, though. You can blame her for this.’

Astoria shakes her head slowly, looks up at my ceiling. ‘Well, won’t this be interesting?’

She says it like she’s Mafalda the Last Squib of Wiltshire being led to a burning stake.

 _Interesting_ is the very least of it.

-x-

Diagon Alley is far too crowded for me, rainy and cold today. Shoppers bustle along with armfuls of heavy purchases, children trailing behind them, chatting anxiously of the coming school year. They bump into me as if I don’t exist, as if they can’t see me, but I can feel their eyes. These people know who I am--right now they’re just taking advantage of a crowded street to act against me. Small payback for whatever I might have done in the war, even if the war didn’t affect their families at all.

I stumble against a glass-paned window as a witch in a bright cloak brushes past me. She glances back over her shoulder, smug, and then blanches when I make eye-contact.

On occasion I appreciate my reputation.

‘Are you alright?’

The voice is soft, coming from behind me. When I turn to face it, I’m surprised: Luna Lovegood stands before me, holding a door open and watching me with large silvery eyes. Her scraggly blonde hair is clipped up, wand tucked behind her left ear. It seems the years haven’t touched her.

‘I’ll take that as a no, then. Tea?’

Her gaze really is a little disturbing. She’s not... normal, but then, she never was. Probably never will be.

‘Tea?’ Lovegood repeats herself, raising her eyebrows--I can barely see them, they’re so pale--and gestures me inside. I stand in place, bemused, until she reaches out to snag my cloak and pulls. It’s only as she shuts the door that I realise I recognise the place, though I’ve never before been inside.

 _‘Protegus?’_

‘Oh, yes. I quite liked the name when it was suggested. Do you take honey? Or would you prefer Gurdyroot Infusion?’

I tear my eyes from the shop’s dusty interior to stare at her. ‘Gurdyroot what? What the bloody fuck is that?’

She rummages under the counter-top, unfased. The girl who blinks too much is still here, though she pays no attention to us. Lovegood reaches around her, producing two mugs and a teapot. ‘Gurdyroot Infusion. Most people haven’t tried it, but I like to give customers a chance. You’re not a customer.’

I can literally feel the confused expression on my face as she frowns at me, just slightly. ‘No, you...’

‘I suppose I can share anyway. Everyone here seems to forget it’s available to them, so I always have leftover. I don’t know why they won’t drink it. I’m sure it’s good for concentration.’ Lovegood pours it into our cups. Steam rises as she does so and at least it’s something warm to off-set the biting cold from outside. I’m still wrongfooted, unsure of why I’m in here, but my curiosity is setting in once more like the plumes of dust floating around us. It’s been months since I allowed myself to think of this place.

Time hasn’t changed it at all. Still clean but for the sawdust under my feet, still empty but for the girl at the counter. The only new additions are the presence of Lovegood and the scent of something vaguely spicy that I can’t identify.

It feels... odd in here, though. That’s the thing that registers most--the feeling. It prickles along the nape of my neck where my scarf doesn’t quite cover, ruffles the ends of my hair, tickles the back of my throat. Even the air feels thicker, warmer. I can’t identify the cause, but it’s... not as unsettling as Lovegood. In fact, it’s almost comfortable, and this is what makes it so unusual.

‘Here.’

Lovegood holds out the cup out to me, focusing her gaze over my left shoulder. I glance back as I take the cup from her to see nothing of interest behind me.

More to diffuse the awkwardness that is entirely her fault, I carefully sip at the Gurdyroot Infusion. I immediately regret it. Only my upbringing as a polite member of society forces me to swallow it. ‘Did you poison me?’ I demand, eyes wide.

The mild look of surprise on her face isn’t reassuring. ‘I don’t believe I did. You’re the first person who’s ever accused me of trying to poison them. I find it quite ironic.’

‘Ironic?’ I’m sputtering, I know this. Father would be horrified, but then he can’t really talk after everything that happened during the war, can he? ‘What the fuck is ironic about being concerned for my health?’

‘You poisoned someone.’

She stares at me now. I want to melt, to disappear. Blood rushes to my cheeks, rushes back out just as quickly. Being reminded of my past is something I’m used to but most people don’t remember that part. In fact, I don’t know _what_ people remember other than the faded Mark on my forearm.

I turn from her, place the cup on the counter-top. One last look around and I step towards the doorway. Fuck my curiosity, fuck kindness in disguise, fuck being so taken by surprise that I let myself get into this situation. And fuck everyone who still judges me for a boy’s mistakes. And fuck me for making those mistakes.

Lovegood’s in front of me within seconds, pale eyebrows lifted once more, perpetually surprised. ‘I suppose you don’t think much of it, but it’s really no reason to leave, Draco Malfoy.’

‘Thank you for the attempt,’ I mutter.

And then I’m gone.

-x-

‘Draco.’

Startled, I turn from the worktop where I’m filling a glass of wine. My father brushes ash from the Floo off of his shoulders and turns to extend a hand to my mother.

‘I didn’t know you were planning to come over,’ I blurt. Father lifts his eyebrows at me in that imperious _‘Really, do try a little harder to locate your brain’_ way of his; I turn back again to grab two more glasses, avoiding him for as long as possible.

Mother tosses her cloak onto some piece of furniture as per her usual. I can almost _hear_ Father rolling his eyes, though he says nothing. Everyone in this room knows Mother is the head of the family, ancient patriarchy be damned.

‘White, if you don’t mind, darling.’ Her heels click across the wood of my floor. I can only imagine she’s looking at the portraits on the wall.

‘Nothing new there,’ I call over my shoulder, finally presenting Father with his glass. He discreetly eyes me from head to toe, attempting to hide behind his glass as he takes a sip. I know it’s a kind of concern unique to him. It doesn’t bother me as much as it once did, largely because he and I are at an impasse of who’s more dishonoured or respected.

When I turn, my mother is there, face composed and eyes warm. She’s changed considerably from the woman who lived through the Dark Lord’s second coming. Gone is the fearful, ghostly shadow from that time; calm and collected and ever so knowledgeable, she is respected among many societies--despite the names my father and I have made for ourselves.

I extend her glass, leaning in to kiss her cheek. She watches me carefully as I draw back. ‘Darling.’

‘This is a surprise,’ I say, stepping away and gesturing the pair of them to my sofa. I take the armchair. ‘How did you know I would be home tonight?’

Father swirls the wine in his glass, gaze travelling around the room, assessing as if he’s never seen it before. It has been months, I admit, but nothing much has changed. I’m not impulsive in that way--indeed, in many ways. ‘Elephantine Greengrass was present at the luncheon we attended. She mentioned your usual Thursday night plans had been put on hold, as Astoria is at home tonight.’

‘Not that you bring her to all of them,’ Mother says, leaning forward. ‘It helped that we ran into the Bulstrode girl whilst shopping today—her name slips my mind. Your friend, played for the Slytherin Quiddtich team?’

‘Millicent.’ Three guesses as to why she was in Diagon Alley. I’m reminded of Loony Lovegood and her false tea and kindness. It must put a sour expression on my face, judging by Mother’s slowly rising eyebrow.

‘Indeed. She mentioned that her night was free as well, so we inferred we might find you at home. I’m pleased to be right.’ She smiles at me before raising her glass to her lips.

It’s quiet for a moment as we all taste the wine. My father and I attempt to avoid eye contact. I don’t know how to act around him since his release from probation. During his time locked away at the Manor, things were simple. Mother was a frequent guest in my flat and her visits were often filled with gossip and comfortable chatter. Since his reintroduction to society, a strain has fallen between us. A part of me resents the Ministry for giving him such a short sentence.

There’s only one person to blame for that bullshit, though. If it hadn’t been for the Saviour himself stepping in on my family’s trial, the repercussions for our actions would have been far more severe. True, I probably wouldn’t have gotten that time with my mother to fix our relationship, but I could have used a few more years without Father swanning back in to cock it all up.

‘How are you occupying your time?’ my father finally asks. His back is stiff. He doesn’t look at me.

I lift one foot to rest on my other knee, sip carefully, and sigh. ‘I’m still writing my account of the War, though I’ll need to find a member of the Order to coordinate with for the other half.’ I know it’s unwise to mention this to him considering his disapproval, but I really haven’t been doing much else recently.

Mother tilts her head. ‘Have you compiled a list of members of the Order who might be willing to talk to you?’

‘You can’t really want him to go through with this.’

She turns her gaze to Father, eyes cool and blue and reprimanding. ‘I’m glad he’s not sitting around in his home staring out of windows, Lucius. Nor is he off pledging himself to a madman, which pleases me to no end.’

He purses his lips, disapproving, but doesn’t question her. Mother turns back to me for my answer.

‘I have a list, though many on it are unlikely to do anything less than hex me on sight.’ I shrug. I’d known it would be difficult from the start. It might be one of the reasons I wanted to do it in the first place; the harder the task, the longer it would take.

It’s a testament to my mother’s character that she just nods and moves on, making suggestions and inquiries about the writing. She avoids the topic of Astoria for the most part. I’m fairly sure she knows things are questionable right now.

I haven’t heard from Astoria for a week now. I should be more worried, I really should, but I’m quite relieved, to be honest. Of course, I’m not telling Pansy that. She’s on my shitlist and she knows it.

Only as they’re leaving does Father bring her up, a pointed remark about his surprise that Grandmother Malfoy’s ring is still in the box in his study.

I shut the Floo behind them, feeling something inside me squirm.

I can’t deny it anymore.

-x-

Astoria and I are to be married. I’m not quite sure how it happened. She hadn’t been pleased when I showed up at the Greengrass estate and requested her company. Her face when I’d presented her with the ring had been nearly amusing enough to distract me. If I hadn’t been signing away my only chance at happiness in the name of family duty, I might have laughed.

Pansy stares at me when I tell her, and I know that’s pity in her eyes. I know that’s compassion, understanding, and I hate it. I felt the same for her when her engagement was called off as she does for me now when I announce my own.

Time goes by quickly, wedding plans rushed through. I lay down my quill, stop thinking about the book, and instead allow myself to be dragged along behind the women as they order flowers and plan table arrangements. I don’t know what to do with myself now that I’m throwing away the honesty in me.

Lying about my sexuality is only the beginning, I feel. I have no idea how far this will go.

Three months to the day after I proposed to her, we’re standing at the altar, a Wedding Bond twining around our wrists as our magic recognises one another. I hate it. I smile.

The reception is held at the Manor. My father actually raises his glass to me, pride in his expression. I haven’t seen him look at me like that since I took the Mark. That should be a hint right there. Mother is impassive but gracious; her eyes are troubled when she looks at me. I stop searching for her and instead follow my wife--my _wife_ , and I think I loathe that, because Astoria shouldn’t be _my_ anything, let alone my _wife_ \--around the gardens.

Millicent watches me as I take to the dance floor again, Pansy in my arms. It’s like she’s trying to figure something out. Unnerved, I press my face into Pansy’s up-do, smelling the sticky charms that hold it up and her sweet shampoo under them.

‘Do you think I’m fucking up, doing this?’

‘It’s already done,’ she whispers, and there’s a hand running down my back. It’s sympathy, sadness. I squeeze her tighter, eyes closed. This can’t be undone.

-x-

We honeymoon in Italy. I swallow back distaste and do my best. It’s different, having sex with a woman. I find myself wishing for more resistance, for firmer muscles, longer fingers, a prick pulsing hard against my abdomen as I thrust in. I do it, though, because it’s expected of me, because I can’t do anything else, because it was Astoria’s condition for marrying me. I don’t even ask her to turn around and let me fuck her from behind. She gets her honeymoon, I get my family’s reputation.

And I get a child.

I stare at her when she tells me. We’re home, in the townhouse we both picked out in London. She sits across from me in the drawing room, her wand moving absently as she goes over a list for dinner guests on Thursday. She chose the day on purpose, chose the people. She’s controlling my life.

And she’s pregnant.

‘How many weeks?’ I ask. I don’t know. It must have been the honeymoon, because I haven’t touched her since. It’s too early, really, but this is what was meant to happen. An heir. Salazar save me, I’ve no idea what to do.

‘Eleven weeks,’ she tells me, conversational, relaxed. I want to flip a table over, fling myself over the banister, set off a Caterwauling Charm to get her attention. This isn’t something to be calm about. I’m twenty-five--hell, _she_ is twenty-three. I’ve never even held a child. I’m panicking... and Malfoys don’t panic.

I swallow, leaning back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. She’d had it painted grey. It doesn’t lighten the room, doesn’t make it larger when the morning sun shines in through the large windows. This room is my least favourite; she loves it.

Astoria shoots me a smug smile. A small, pathetic part of me wonders if she cast a Conception Charm one of those nights. That part of me feels this is a trap, a plot to hold me to my word. The Bond around my wrist, invisible to everyone else, pulses in the corner of my vision. How many times have I considered severing it, just ending this and going into hiding?

But she’s pregnant, and leaving her now would be the worst decision I’ve ever made.

‘We’re out of milk. Send Twippy to get some, will you?’ She looks away from me, changes the subject, as if this isn’t life-changing news, as if she’s just told me her sister has a date tomorrow night with some bloke I’ve never met and will never care about. I’ll have to care about this child, I realise.

I stand. ‘I’ll go instead.’

That gets a reaction, wide eyes staring up at me in confusion before she purses her lips and nods. ‘Pick up a bottle of wine, will you?’

The crack of Disapparition follows me.

A bottle of wine? She’s pregnant-- _pregnant, pregnant, pregnant_ \--and this is my child. I will not allow her to fuck him up--her or him. I won’t let Astoria hurt this child--I won’t let anybody hurt this child.

I think about my childhood as I walk down the streets of London, about my father and the way I was raised. No, I’ll stay, if only to make sure the babe is brought up to be happier than I was. He or she will have a proper childhood, that I guarantee.

-x-

We fight. Often. As the pregnancy progresses, Astoria turns argumentative. I try at first to submit, because this child is all that’s keeping me together now.

I don’t see my friends nearly as often as I used to--Astoria doesn’t like them--and I can’t stand talking to my mother. I think she regrets my marriage nearly as much as I do. There’s strain everywhere, inescapable, unavoidable.

But I start fighting back when she yells now, about wanting a drink because she’s _tired_ and carrying this _fucking weight_ everywhere and she’s _swelling_ \--about regretting it--about my behaviour and my moods and _you’re so fucking unhelpful, Draco._

I don’t just hate the marriage anymore: I hate her. I didn’t want to, but I can’t stand it, because this child is going to be my future, our future, and I just want--just want that future to be calm, to be perfect, to be free from war. Judging by the way things are right now, it won’t be. The Bond on my wrist is thin, pulled taut, digging deeper into the skin of my wrist than it should. It feels like a shackle.

Astoria doesn’t ever bring up the fact that I’m gay. It’s like she’s forgotten. Only, she hasn’t; because when she rolls over in the middle of the night and tries to stroke me to arousal, it doesn’t work. She’s frustrated and I understand, but there’s only so much I can do. Lack of sex is no reason to start blaming the child in her though, which is what she’s taken to doing. As if the baby is all that’s keeping me from fucking her.

She should have _known_. I asked her, when I proposed, if she could handle marrying me, even if she knew I wouldn’t want to touch her, even if she knew I would be thinking of other men the few rare times when I was forced to. She said she’d deal with it.

If this is her way of ‘dealing’, her definition needs fixing.

Fed up, I finally leave one night. Pansy is surprised to see me, and I feel rage well up inside me. My best friend shouldn’t be surprised to see me. She’s never been surprised to see me, because I’ve always popped over whenever I felt like it. But Astoria-Astoria-Astoria and Salazar fucking _shit_.

I fall into the armchair in her lounge, leaning forward, hair clenched in my fists. ‘Pansy, I can’t do this.’

It’s a testament to our friendship that after six months of not hearing from me she’s squatting in front of me, arms around my shoulders. Her chest is soft under my temple, a comfort, the gentle ‘shhh’ sounds she’s making soothe me. I don’t know how long I rest there but her knees must hurt by the time I sigh and pull away, hands pressed to my face.

‘Long time, no see.’ Her lips quirk up, sadly, inviting me to smile with her. To sweep the past few months of neglect away, sweep them back under the carpet as if a house elf can Banish them from existence with that unusual magic of theirs.

I take the offer, a dry laugh breaking past the block in my throat.

She gets up from the floor, steadying herself on the arms of my chair, and snaps her fingers. One of her three house elves pops into place, large eyes focused on her with a kind of respect none of ours at the Manor ever had for my father. ‘What will Miss Pansy be wanting?’

‘Two glasses and a bottle of the finest brandy, thank you.’ Pansy glances at me. ‘And a pair of scissors.’

I reach up and tug on the hair hanging in my face. ‘You think a haircut will fix everything?’

‘No, not everything.’ She smiles at me, tenderly, and Summons one of the armchairs to place it next to me. She flops into it, pulling a band out of her hair and allowing it to fall around her shoulders. There’s blonde in the dark strands. ‘Speaking of... want to tell me what specifically has you Apparating into my house at half eleven looking like death warmed over?’

So I tell her. I tell her about Astoria and her control, about the baby I want so badly now, the one I’m sure Astoria can’t stand. I tell her how worried I am, about the far-off future, about the future for tomorrow.

‘Does this make me a horrible person, that I hate the woman I married?’

‘I hate her too.’

And it’s that simple.

‘I can’t leave her.’

But it’s not that simple, not nearly.

She takes my hand. Squeezes. I watch the Bond flare briefly, digging in tighter before it assesses she’s not a threat to this already shaky union. ‘Have you thought of a name yet?’

I lift my head, the wrinkles in my forehead disappearing bit by bit. ‘A name?’

It’s a thought I’ve not acknowledged. Somehow, a part of me figured Astoria wouldn’t let me name the baby. But I can do that, if it’s all I do. I _to, because this is _my_ child far more than it is Astoria’s. It’s more caring than carrying._

Pansy peers into the glass in her hand, the smallest sip of brandy in the ice at the bottom. ‘Yes, darling, a name. Generally you name your children; hence, you are known as Draco and I am Pansy, because our parents were idiots in their own rights. I’m as far from a delicate flower as a girl gets. Well, unless you’re Millie. But let’s not tell her I said that, eh?’

‘Draco is not an idiotic name,’ I say defensively. ‘It’s a constellation. It’s Black family tradition.’

‘Is it now?’

I meet her gaze, take in her lifted eyebrow and slight smirk. A smile slowly spreads across my face. ‘It’s Black family tradition. I think I’ll need to take up Astronomy again.’

-x-

Mother stands in front of the doors, keeping me out, her eyes tracking my every movement. I know her wand is in hand, ready to hit me with any kind of spell needed to stop me. I am on a rampage. Children do that to a man.

‘That’s my son,’ I rasp, swinging back the other way to stalk across the hallway, window to window. ‘Mum, that’s my son in there and I’m out here and she’s--she’s fucking--’

Her mouth twitches to the side. I don’t know if she disapproves of my language or if she, too, is offended that we’ve both been asked to vacate the birthing chamber. ‘I’m sorry, Draco, but Astoria has requested we remain out here and it is the utmost offense to disrespect a mother’s wishes.’

Pansy snorts from her perch on the window bench. Astoria hadn’t wanted her here but since I’d fought for her as godmother to my son, her presence is necessary to begin the charms. ‘Stupid, selfish cow,’ she mutters. I silently agree.

Father sits in his office on the first floor, probably staring out over the grounds now, vibrant with late summer colours. I suspect he’s slowly draining a bottle of whiskey: I know he’s nervous. Apparently he’d done the same thing when I was born. But even now, this early, I’m striving to be a better father to my son than he was to me.

It doesn’t help that my wife is preventing me from my goal.

Finally, finally, the door opens and Mrs Greengrass peers around it. ‘Come in, come in.’ She smiles at us, hair wispy around her face. ‘Time to meet him.’

I look to Astoria as soon as I enter, brushing past my mother in my eagerness. He’s not there, I see. She looks tired, worn-out, face sweaty and flushed, pillowcase soaked around her. I turn away, towards the bassinet under the window.

He’s so small. Delicate. Quiet. Curled on his side, chest expanding with short breaths, eyes closed. Something inside me breaks apart and I feel whole for the first time in years and years. Maybe the first time ever. It’s not something I recognise, but oh does it affect me.

‘Can I hold him?’ My voice is only a whisper. Daphne, standing close at hand, smiles at me and nods, taking my hands and placing them. His skin is softer than any I’ve ever felt, rolled and warm and he doesn’t smell the best but I don’t care a whit. I cradle him against my chest, staring down at him, and it’s fitting that I’ll name him after the stars because he’s a center of gravity, tying me down.

When his eyes open, my lips part. They’re silver-grey in his tiny, wrinkled face. Mine, mine, and he’s mine just as I am his.

-x-

Pansy tugs at my cloak, pulling me out of the way of a witch bustling past with a list held up in front of her face. I smile at her gratefully, one hand on Scorpius’ back and the other checking the straps of the carrier holding him to my chest. It’s some weird Muggle invention, but it works well. I hadn’t asked how my mother knew of it.

‘Come along, come along.’ I follow her green cloak into Flourish and Blotts, glad for the warmth that envelopes us after the cold spring day outside. Gently, I brush snow off of Scorpius’ tiny knit hat.

‘Who’re we meeting?’ I finally ask, dodging around two small children who’ve escaped the grasp of their parents.

‘Are you going to finish your book?’ She stops in the middle of a row, turning to face me, and I frown.

‘Eventually. I can’t until I talk to someone from the opposite si--’ It’s impossible not to notice when he steps around the corner, and I know immediately.

‘Potter.’ There’s naught to do but blink at him. He glances at Scorpius, stares, and I stare at him. He’s taller than he was in school, though still just slightly shorter than me, hair covered by a knitted cap and cheeks red from the weather. I’ve no idea how to react.

Potter finally tears his eyes away from my son to meet mine. ‘How old?’

‘Seven months,’ I answer automatically, shifting my weight and glancing at Pansy. ‘Was this your idea?’

She shrugs, doesn’t look up from her nails. I can tell by the slightest glimpse of her face that she’s smirking. ‘Ask him. He’s the one who volunteered when Millie mentioned it months and months ago.’

I turn back to him, dragging my eyes over his face. It’s odd, to be standing here civilly, wands stowed away and sharp tongues sheathed for the moment. ‘Millie told you? Why the--why has Millie been talking to you?’

Potter lifts his eyebrows and shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat. ‘Oh, we talk during sessions.’

‘Sessions. Sessions of what?’

‘Defensive magic and the like. What else would she be working on with us?’

‘Us.’ I can’t seem to do anything but repeat after him. My intelligence has deserted me. Traitorous bastard. ‘Who exactly is _us_?’

He looks at Pansy and then back to me. ‘I thought you knew she was a patron of _Protegus.’_

 _Protegus._ It’s been nearly two years since I stepped into the place and found myself humiliated by Lovegood. In all honesty, I’d nearly forgotten it in the whirlwind my life became--marrying Astoria, fighting with Astoria, getting things ready for Scorpius, beginning to learn about childcare, fighting with Astoria still. I’ve had no time to write or think about shops that once had me on the verge of obsession.

‘Harry!’ He turns to look behind him. Luna Lovegood emerges from the stacks, carrying a squirming toddler with red hair. I blink, frown, smooth my hand down my son’s back again. ‘James is acting up again. Maybe you should take the meeting to the shop, rather than giving poor Ms Blotts the vapours again. Ginny wouldn’t take kindly.’

Potter quickly scoops the boy out of her arms and grins at her. ‘Thanks, Luna. I’ll be back soon. Want lunch?’

She shrugs and disappears, a long curtain of blonde hair whipping around the corner of a bookshelf.

Pansy leans forward to look at what I’m assuming is Potter’s spawn, though how it ended up with red hair I’ve no proper idea. ‘Well. That’s interesting.’

He rolls his eyes, readjusting his grip. ‘Interesting he might be, but just wait until you’ve got one of your own, Parkinson. Or two, even. Al still keeps Ginny and me up all hours of the night and James has got us chasing him down all hours of the day. I’m sure Malfoy could tell you at least part of it.’

I shake my head and it’s as if I’ve reverted in age. ‘Actually, Potter, it pleases me to be able to tell you that I’ve very few issues with my son. Perfectly well-behaved, he is.’

Pansy looks at me in askance. ‘At night, you mean. During the day he’s a bloody menace. Did you put a Sleeping Draught in his milk this morning or what?’

Flushing at the implication, I shake my head. ‘I did no such thing. He doesn’t like the cold, is all. He tends to curl up and stay quiet. It’s your fault we’re even out. Apparently you’ve been plotting behind my back.’ I pause, add--‘Though, I suppose that’s really no different from our usual, is it?’

She smiles at me, reaches out to tweak my ear. I glare at her as I dodge back.

‘Down!’

We glance back at Potter, startled by the loud voice, and find him struggling to hold his son. His face is slightly red; I can’t help but smirk. Such a lovely child, Scorpius is. Even if his mother tries to avoid any and all interaction with him. That thought wipes the smirk away.

At least it sounds like Potter’s son has both parents to care for him.

Though judging by the temper tantrum that is slowly building up, it hasn’t taught him much discipline--not that I know whether it’s possible to teach a--two? three?--year old discipline. I suppose I’ll learn in a few years.

‘Can we, erm, head outside? Back to _Protegus_ so Anita doesn’t AK me?’ Potter asks, grinning nervously as he hauls his son over his shoulder. Little feet kick at Potter’s chest. I’m tempted to laugh again.

-x-

 _Protegus_ hasn’t changed since I was last here, despite the time that’s passed. It still feels odd in that certain way. Scorpius opens his eyes and stares around silently. I wonder if it’s because he senses the magic the same way I do, whether it registers with him. James has quieted down too, though it might just be because he’s back on the floor under his own power.

Pansy runs her hand down the back of her neck, frowning suspiciously. ‘Why’s it feel weird in here, Potter? What kind of spells or wards or whatever are up?’

He glances at us from behind the counter where he’s crouching down. ‘It’s just protective enchantments, a few things Luna added, and focus-enhancing spells. Does it bother you?’ He looks interested in her answer. I get the feeling he asks most people who walk in.

‘Not really,’ she answers slowly. ‘It’s just... different.’

‘Tea?’

I look around, unsure. This place unsettles me even as it makes me feel relaxed. I don’t know what to make of it, or what to make of Potter. He’s being civil and neither of us is trying to kill the other. We’re not even arguing, really. I feel like the Apocalypse should be beginning momentarily.

‘Yes, with honey, if you have it. For Draco as well,’ Pansy answers. She’s turned to hang her scarf on hooks near the back door and is regarding me expectantly.

‘What?’

‘Are you going to talk to him or not?’

I glance at Potter to find he’s looking at me, head tilted to one side. ‘Erm.’

He rolls his eyes, reaches down to pull a glass plate out of his son’s curious hands. ‘I promise not to pull a wand on you, Malfoy. I also promise not to spike your tea with anything. I’m too tired from watching over this one to want a duel at the moment, and considering you haven’t moved your hand away from your son, I think I’d probably die the moment I made a threatening move.’

It doesn’t surprise me that he’s right about that. If ever there was a time I would honestly kill someone with intent, it would be someone threatening Scorpius.

‘Probably,’ I agree out loud. ‘I wouldn’t apologise, either.’

‘Why ever would you do that?’ I hear him mutter as he crouches down again for the tea bags. My lips quirk upwards for the briefest moment.

‘Daddy, why’s’got blue hair?’

Potter’s son is staring at me--more specifically, at Scorpius and his beanie. Trust Potter to teach his son that anything on a head is hair.

Potter glances over the counter-top and snorts inelegantly. ‘James, that’s a hat.’

‘Bike Mummy’s?’

‘Yes, like Mummy’s hat.’

‘Mummy’s hat’s green.’

I smile, just a bit, and turn away to look at Pansy. She looks exasperated. I pity her future children. She’s in for a rude awakening when she gets round to it.

‘Hats can be all different colours.’

‘Orange?’ The boy’s eyes widen, a light brown, and I wonder if this is even Potter’s kid. The only resemblance is their intelligence--which isn’t fair of me, considering the child can barely be three, if that. It’s giving Potter far too much credit to say they’re intellectual equals.

Potter sighs and nods. ‘Even orange. And no, you can’t have one.’

‘Lunnnna!’ He disappears into the back and Potter sheepishly looks up at us.

‘Sorry about that. He likes the sound of his own voice now. You said honey?’

Pansy and I carefully approach the counter, taking the cups from him with cold hands. The glass is hot against my skin. I set it down and readjust Scorpius, who softly huffs against my neck. He smells like baby powder and Mother’s perfume since she was the one taking care of him earlier this morning. It’s comforting, grounding. ‘Thank you,’ I offer carefully.

He shrugs and leans his elbows onto the counter, watching me with serious eyes. ‘So you’re writing a history about the War.’

I transfigure one of the scarves on the wall into a stool, taking a seat and hooking my feet into the bottom rung as I reach for my cup. ‘I was. I’ve started the perspective from the Death Eaters’ side of the war, but the publisher would be more interested if I could get a member of the Order to collaborate with me. Of course, I haven’t been pursuing that for over a year now, what with taking care of Scorpius.’

‘Scorpius.’ He says the name as if testing it. ‘Huh.’

‘Family tradition,’ Pansy mutters from my side, inhaling the steam rising from her cup.

Potter tilts his head but seems to abandon the train of thought. ‘Well. If you still wanted a perspective from the Order, I’ll volunteer. I’m not the best writer but I’ve a fairly decent memory. And I know most everything that was going on at the time.’

I sip my tea carefully--too little honey--before I answer. ‘Why do you want to do this?’

Brow furrowed, Potter shifts his weight to lean his hip against the counter. ‘I assume for the same reasons you’re doing it.’

‘To keep yourself busy?’ I ask, sceptical. ‘You’ve already got a job.’

His eyes are too dark, I decide. I don’t even know why people say they’re green, not with the way he’s looking at me. Those are shadows, deep, ingrained, and I know then. I nod, acknowledge my true goal-- ‘And because you hope getting it out will make the nightmares stop.’

‘One more reason.’ He holds up his index finger; I stare at it for a moment before looking back at his face. ‘They all need to know the truth, so it doesn’t happen again. And I doubt anyone else will get a chance to have both perspectives in a single book. If you and I can do this without murdering one another, it’ll also show them that the war is over, truly.’

‘Is it?’

It’s a stupid question, we all know it. Pansy lets out a heavy sigh whilst Potter narrows his eyes at me and crosses his arms over his chest. ‘It had better be.’

His intimidation routine is ruined by James’ return and the shouted, ‘Daddy, c’we get a ‘apping twurtle to eat the ‘argles?’

-x-

It’s not until the first week of April that I get the first owl from Potter. The tapping wakes me in the early hours of the morning, darkness outside obscuring the bird’s shape until I flick my wand at the lights. I groan, wishing it would disappear even as I slide my feet out onto the cold floor.

The owl glides around the room twice before it lets me take the letter tied to it’s leg with a length of green ribbon. I half-expect it to be from Astoria--it’s been nearly a week since I’ve seen her. She’s on a holiday to the Alps with her mother and sister, and I can’t say I mind.

But the handwriting isn’t hers. It’s splotchy, rough, letters mingling between penmanship and print; ink smears the page at intervals, as if it was written in a hurry. Potter’s inviting me to his shop to discuss the book within the next week.

Frowning, I lower the letter and look back up at the owl waiting for either my return post or a treat. It hoots dolefully at me and I sigh, padding into the kitchen to start the coffee. I’m not happy to be awake right now but figure working on the book while Scorpius sleeps is a good idea.

The bird follows me.

-x-

I show up at _Protegus_ around half eleven on Wednesday. The Girl Who Blinks looks at me as I enter the shop and opens a ledger in front of her. ‘You’ve not got an appointment, sir.’

She continues to blink at me and I wonder if that’s really all she’s capable of. ‘Mr Potter asked me to come by,’ I say, waving the letter at her uselessly. ‘I’d appreciate it if you would let him know I’m here.’

A heavy sigh and she slides off her stool, glaring at me suspiciously. ‘Wait here, then. I’ll speak to him, though I think he’s busy.’

It’s just a moment later that Potter sticks his head out of the back and jerks it at me, clearly giving me permission to walk back.

The lighting is bright back here in some areas, dark in others, and I’m confused until I realise there are different training areas set up. _Protegus_ doesn’t _sell_ protective equipment--it _teaches_ witches and wizards to protect themselves. I watch with wide eyes as what looks like two patrons tentatively set up in the dueling position; as soon as Lovegood, standing between them, Apparates out of the way, they lose their hesitancy and the spellwork leaves me slightly stunned.

Potter grins, standing beside me and watching. ‘They’ve been training for nearly a year now, so we feel it’s alright to let them at each other. We’ve got a Healer on hand in case things get out of control but it’s never happened so far.’

‘You run a training facility?’

‘Not really. More like a self-defence class.’ He shrugs, hands in the pockets of his denims, the sides of his robes pushed back. ‘You really had no idea?’

‘It’s not like you advertise,’ I mutter, finally turning away from the duel, which has disintegrated into a real fight-like situation while Lovegood pops up all along the edges to observe and call out instructions.

‘Where’s your son today?’

I follow him back to an office packed with objects like Sneak-o-scopes and half-eaten muffins, paperwork and a single Snitch flying around obnoxiously. Potter reaches up to grab the Snitch and stuffs it into a crowded drawer as he slips behind his desk, gesturing me towards the chair across from him. I lift a stack of unfolded robes off of it and sit, holding them awkwardly and glaring. ‘This is disgusting. You really ought to keep it neater if you’re going for professionalism.’

He grins at me, throwing me off when he doesn’t rise to the bait, leaning back to place his boots on the corner of the desk and survey me over his glasses. I don’t know what he intends to get out of it, since I think he’s nearsighted anyway, but I don’t know him at all, really. ‘So people have said. Hermione hates it too. She uses Rose as her excuse for not coming in anymore.’

So Granger had her kid then. I wonder how many people who survived from our year have already gotten to that point.

‘You said you’d like to talk about the book?’ I prompt, finally dumping the robes onto a box near at hand. I think it’s a Weasleys’ Wheezes box and I’m nearly afraid of what’s in it. Never know with that place.

Potter nods and reaches forward to grab a quill and a book of parchment. ‘I was thinking we could set up a timeline to meet properly and actually start working on it. I’ll be busy until the middle of April at least, but after that things seem fairly clear until September.’

I frown. ‘I want to get this done as soon as possible.’

‘It’ll take months, probably at least a year, won’t it? To get all of my memories down and all of your own, to organise and edit it, for the publisher to approve it? I mean, we’ve both got kids and families and I’m working here as well. To be quite honest, it’ll be on the back burner for me unless we schedule meetings now. Do I have to go in with you to the publisher?’

Sighing, I pull out my day planner as well and look up at him expectantly for a quill.

We settle on every other Sunday afternoon, though it’s harder to pick the location. Potter wants to do it at my home, but I know Astoria will be averse to the idea and I’d rather avoid any arguments I can. She’s angry enough that I’m daring to start writing again. When I suggest the shop, he says Sundays are Lovegood’s day to go over the schedule for the week and redo her odd spells around the place. He admits he’d rather not be here for that and I hastily take it back. I’d refuse to spend more time around the batty woman myself, but I’m not Harry Potter. Why he chose to _work_ with her....

Finally, he leans back in his chair, sighing. ‘I suppose we’ll have to do it at my place. Of course, I need to find a place first, but--’ he shrugs ‘--as soon as I’m settled I’ll let you know, yeah?’

‘You need to find a place?’ I ask dubiously, narrowing my gaze at him as I lower my quill and parchment. ‘Unless I’m wrong, you do have a home, considering you’re obviously married to the female Weasley and spawning with her.’

He snorts, eyeing me with what looks like amused disapproval. ‘We’re in the final stages of our divorce actually. Which is quite annoying, as she’s pregnant with my third child. Thank fucking Merlin everything is on amicable terms. So, yes, I’m currently house-hunting in London. I’ll owl you, yeah?’

Confused, I hasten to stand with him, hesitate before taking the outstretched hand, and nod as we shake. ‘Right then,’ I say awkwardly, reeling. Why can Potter get a divorce and I can’t? How come Potter is amiable with his soon-to-be-ex-wife when mine goes on all the vacations she can to get away from me and our small son?

Before I know it, I’m standing in the middle of Diagon Alley again, blinking in the sunlight and feeling for once that I understand the girl in their shop who seems to do naught else: working with Potter has to be bad for the brain.

-x-

‘Draco, can you take him from me? I need to go change.’

I don’t pull my eyes away from the timeline floating in the air over my desk. ‘Mmhmm, just a minute.’

‘Draco.’ Sharper now, more impatient, and I sigh, making a quick note on the parchment in front of me.

Astoria stands in the doorway, Scorpius in her arms, an expression of distaste on her face. I’d assume it’s from the sick on her shoulder--it’s less common now, but apparently she got it. Gently, I take him from her; it’s the closest we ever get to each other now, this short distance between us as we trade off.

Her sigh is tired and worn, her hair messy and skin pale. I frown as I lift him to my shoulder; one of his drool-covered hands reaches up to tug at my hair. ‘Are you okay? I think you should go back to bed,’ I offer, unsure of her reception.

She shakes her head, rubbing at her eyes with her knuckles. ‘I think I will. He was noisy last night. I thought they were supposed to get quieter as they got older?’

I smile at her a little pityingly, silently agreeing. She’s making an effort now. I don’t know what changed but she is, and I can’t help but be thankful to her. It’s taken loads of the stress off of our faux-relationship and for once we’re not arguing whenever we see each other. Perhaps we’re just too exhausted. ‘Go on, I’ll take care of him today, no problem.’

As she turns to go, she glances back at me, brow furrowed and eyes curious. ‘You want to know something funny?

I blink at her, perplexed.

‘I was angry at you for so long, uselessly. You can’t change who you are, and I can’t make you, no matter how hard I try. It’s why I was so angry. But Daph, you know what she said to me last week?’ I shake my head silently. ‘She said I used to think you were incapable of love. But, well, I guess I was wrong.... He’s your world, everyone knows it. And I can’t begrudge you that anymore. I’m tired of trying.’

The door closes behind her. I stare for a moment before slowly turning around to set him on the floor. I barely notice the Bond, and I blink at it when I finally do--looser than it has ever been so far, comfortable, almost warm.

I don’t even know what to think of my life anymore.

-x-

Pansy Floos over in the middle of Friday afternoon. Though I’d expected her visit, I’m surprised when Millie emerges after her, already unbuttoning her work robes and handing them off to a house elf. There’s a name badge pinned to her shirt, so I know she’s Floo’d straight from the Ministry. She’s got wonderful timing to coordinate it with Pansy’s arrival.

She glances at me, dark gaze raking me up and down before she says, ‘Well, you’ve lost weight.’ Pansy glances at her sharply and looks back at me, judging.

‘Hello, Millicent.’ My dry tone cracks a small smile from her square face and I realise I might have missed her just a smidge. She’s more difficult than Pansy--she’s never been in love with me like Pansy fancied herself to be fourth, fifth, and sixth years.

‘She’s right, but only just,’ Pansy agrees, stepping forward to kiss my cheek. ‘Where’re Scorp and your illustrious wife?’

I roll my eyes at her. ‘She’s not terrible, Pansy. And they’re over at Daphne’s.’

Her eyebrows rise as she and Millicent follow me towards the drawing room. ‘That’s a change in tune. What, have you suddenly decided sex with women isn’t terrifying anymore?’

Millie sighs from behind us and I look back to find her shaking her head. She stays silent though, watching the pair of us, and I shrug. ‘Not really, no. Apparently we’ve reached an understanding and she’s not being horrific about Scorpius.’

‘Huh.’ Pansy falls into one of the armchairs naturally though she’s been here far less than she used to. ‘Interesting. And how’s this whole thing with Potter going?’ Her hair has blue streaks in it and I know better than to ask, though I want to. She looks healthy, at least, and I’m glad that she’s either learning to take care of herself or has someone doing it for her.

Like I used to. A part of me aches as I watch her.

‘Since when are you and Harry Potter speaking to one another?’ Millie asks, eyebrows high on her forehead. I want to laugh--so rarely does anything truly surprise her. I shrug, settling in on the sofa. She remains standing, a little lost, and I lazily flick my wand so that one of the chairs scoots from behind to scoop her up. The Stinging Hex I receive as soon as she rights herself is worth it. ‘Bastard.’

Pansy takes the opportunity to tell her all about it, bragging about her involvement whilst I fill our glasses. I miss these two, oddly enough, and having them here is a nice change. When I return, Millie absently takes a glass from me and swirls the wine around, thoughtful.

‘Harry hasn’t mentioned it, but he’s been rather busy lately, I suppose.’

She looks up to find both me and Pansy staring at her.

‘Harry? You call him Harry?’

‘I’ve been working under his instruction for ages now, Draco. We’re familiar with one another. He’s really not horrid. A bit distracted sometimes but that’s allowed. _You_ , for instance, only listen to half of what anyone else says.’ Millie eyes me as she takes a sip of the wine and I purse my lips.

‘Untrue. That’s libel.’

‘Slander,’ she corrects lightly, smirking.

‘Either way,’ Pansy interrupts, waving a hand as if to clear the conversation. ‘What kind of terms are you on with Potter? Friendly? Do you know any details about his divorce?’

Millie stares at her, lips pursed to one side, head tilted disapprovingly. ‘Even if I did, Pansy, I’m not telling you two.’

‘What kind of Slytherin _are_ you?’ Pansy flops back over the arm of her seat, setting her empty glass on the floor. I can’t believe she sucked it down that fast.

On second thought, I can.

‘She likes to _trade_ for her information,’ I whisper to her as if it’s a piece of scandalous gossip.

Pansy snorts and lifts her head. ‘I’ll give you a lap dance, Millie, if you tell us. Pretty please with me on top?’

We pause, just for a moment, each of us staring at the other two before Millie calmly says, ‘I hate you both.’ Pansy loses it, cackling and kicking her feet over the other arm while I sit, slowly shaking my head. I despair.

It’s not until an hour later, when we’re well into our second bottle of wine, that Millicent is relaxed enough to actually bargain with us. ‘I’m not taking anything less than two bottles of wine from the Manor and a bottle of Pansy’s father’s finest brandy,’ she says, rolling the stem of her glass between her fingers. I remember when she broke one doing that, our sixth year of school when the upper year had gotten hold of some liquor. I’d barely been able to laugh at her that night, so lost was I in fear and self-pity only amplified by the alcohol.

It’s funnier now.

Pansy and I consider before glancing at each other. ‘Agreed,’ we chorus, each of us holding out our left hands. Millicent rolls her eyes at us. She’s well used to this, having spent years at school where Pansy and I had been nearly inseparable.

‘You obviously know Harry’s getting a divorce from Ginny,’ she starts.

‘Ginny? _Weasley?_ Why can’t you just say the redheaded bint?’ Pansy asks plaintively. ‘It’s _weird_ that you’re referring to Gryffindors by their first names.’

‘Oh, please, don’t give me that. You called each of the Patil twins by her name in school.’

‘I knew them when I was younger! They’re a pureblood family, I’ll have you know.’ A drop of wine splashes on the wood underfoot and I flick my wand at it, glaring at her lightly. She shrugs at me and reaches for the bottle with her feet again.

‘Go on, Millie, ignore her.’

Millicent sighs, frowning into her glass. ‘I don’t know if I should be sharing, really.’ A few seconds of deliberation, and then--’But fuck it. I’m getting good liquor out of this.

‘There wasn’t really any warning. Harry just came in one day, Luna immediately walked up and hugged him, said it’d all be okay and other mundane things. I asked and he just said _We’re splitting._ Something about it being better for everyone involved. Of course, that was before they knew Ginny was pregnant again, which kind of fucked everything up, but they’re still going through with it. In fact, I think they finalise it next weekend.’

I frown, tilting my head. ‘But won’t that screw up life for their kids? I mean, Potter’s son--the red-haired one, or are they all red-haired?--can’t be more than three, right?’

‘James?’ Millie waves a hand. ‘Next January. See, they’re young enough that it really won’t traumatise them because James will be the only one who will remember them together, if he does at all.’

‘And Potter’s just leaving his wife while she’s pregnant? He’s still going through with it?’

I can’t understand. Putting that much stress on my son, even if it is just putting stress on his environment rather than him directly, seems selfish to me. And I know the meaning of the word selfish. Potter’s reputation will be shattered and rumours will fly and it’s boggling to me. Positively mind boggling--not to mention leaving his wife at a time like this, when she’ll need him most, or taking the chance with his child.

Millie leans forward to set her glass on the table, looking at me with serious eyes. ‘You give Gryffindor morals too much credit, Draco, or not enough. I’m not telling you what made them decide to split once and for all--that you’ll have to get out of Harry or Ginny--but he’s got his reasons and she accepts them. They’re going to be sharing the kids, Ginny gets the house, and Harry’s looking for a place. He thinks he might have one but he’s unsure right now, and when he does get it, Ginny will probably be there helping him move in. It’s how they are. I know it’s strange to you--to me, even--but it’s... _natural_ to them.’

Pansy mulls it over before kicking one foot again. ‘Huh. Wonder if one of them cheated.’

Millicent groans and sits back again. ‘Pass the bottle, Parkinson. And not with your feet!’

-x-

She waves the letter in front of my face as I’m scooping a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. I swallow, rolling my eyes, and reach up for it, pausing when I recognise the handwriting addressing it to me.

Astoria sits down at my side, Scorpius in her arms, and looks at the papers spread out in front of me. ‘You’re writing at the breakfast table?’

‘Mmm, not writing, per se,’ I answer absently, turning the letter over in my hands before setting it aside. I’m finally getting used to this new dynamic between us, though it had taken me a long while to forgive her for everything she’d put us through. In a way, I chalk it up to her age, her life experiences--she’s not as mature as she could be, largely because she missed the war which so changed our generation. I can forgive pettiness if I try hard enough. If she’s willing, it’s only fair that I, too, put in the effort.

I can’t really afford to hold a grudge against someone so close to my son.

She sighs, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. The weeks between our angry impasse and this new Astoria are few, but things have changed in such a way that I wonder what it would have been like from the beginning if she were like this. There’s colour in her cheeks, though the circles under her eyes are still visible, and her hair is up and out of the baby’s reach, her dresses abandoned for a thin t-shirt and what I recognise as a pair of my boxers.

It makes me smile a little.

‘Who’s writing you then?’

‘Ah. That letter in particular is from Harry Potter, though I have no idea why he’s writing me right now unless he’s found a place and needs me in the loop.’

She ‘hmms’ quietly, watching me calmly. ‘Isn’t their divorce final this weekend? I think the Prophet mentioned it.’

‘Supposedly.’ I return to my cereal then, flipping through my notes. There are things still missing, things I haven’t found in the Pensieve yet. I’m starting to worry that I’ll need to speak to the Auror Office and see if they’ll give me a list of captured Death Eaters and their sentences. ‘Do you know what happened to Greyback?’

Astoria, in the process of standing up, pauses and looks down at my notes, at my ink-stained hands, at the picture I’m staring at. She reaches out a hand to touch it, turning it to see it better, and inhales sharply. She shakes her head and steps back, trailing her fingers along my neck as she leaves the room.

The more I realise that I don’t know what happened to half of the Death Eaters, the more I begin to worry about my safety, about the safety of my son and wife. Still, I know this needs to be done, and who better to do it?

I just hope it’s not a mistake.

-x-

Four hours later, I’m standing in _Protegus_ waiting for Potter to finish up in the back. I’ve finally learned the name of the blinking girl--Sabine, she’d told me with a sneer--and she’s now avoiding me. I prefer it.

When Potter emerges from the back, he’s trying to don his cloak and carry a pile of flattened boxes at the same time. I stare at him expectantly until he finally shoves the boxes at me so he can do up the clasp. ‘Well, come on then.’

He grabs my forearm and a moment later I’m squeezed into a Side-Along Apparition with no warning whatsoever. I stumble when he releases me, startled and annoyed, and turn to glare at him. ‘Thanks for that. Appreciate it. Who needs a warning, really.’

Potter shrugs and gestures around him. ‘Do you know this place?’

I don’t know it personally, but something about it is familiar nonetheless. It’s dark in the room where we stand, musty and long-closed up, but some of the magic in the room is identifiable. ‘The Black family lived here, didn’t they?’

‘Not your mother, but yes. Her Aunt and cousins,’ Potter says, pulling at my sleeve and taking the boxes from me. I knock his hand away--he’s wrinkling my shirt--but follow him nonetheless. He sweeps his hand towards a window and I blink in the sudden deluge of light, taking in white sheets over furniture and dust along the floors and windowsills.

‘How long has this been closed up?’ I ask, frowning as I look around.

‘Oh, about seven or eight years.’

I jump, whirling around.

Ginny Weasley stands in a doorway, staring at me with slightly-narrowed eyes. She glances at Potter and crosses her arms, lifts her eyebrows.

‘What?’ he asks, smiling, and I am struck by this--by how civil they are, friendly even now. The fact that she’s here, in his new home, is odd, and yet it makes so much sense because they’re _Gryffindors_ and _friends_ and _amicable._

‘Harry, honestly. Did you even tell him I was going to be here? I mean, I know he’s Malfoy and you’ve got your thing, but--’ Potter makes a face at her and she turns her gaze on me, smirking just slightly. ‘Malfoy, welcome to Number 12, Grimmauld Place, my ex-husband’s new abode. It’s features are lovely--dust, rotted wood in some rooms and torn tapestries in others. After having been renovated by an aimless Weasley just after the war, it has since been left to stand on its own--and it shows. Tour?’

I blink at her, startled and confused, and she grins. ‘No, really, want a tour? I’ve got nothing better to do and I need to get some exercise anyway. Can’t do much when you’re pregnant, you know?’ She seems to reconsider and adds, ‘Well, not much compared to Quidditch training, at least.’

‘I... excuse me?’ It does not do for a Malfoy to be so thrown off, especially by a Weasley. That’s what my father would say, anyway.

Even if part of me suspects he’d be just as idiotic as myself in such a situation.

She lifts an eyebrow at me, hands on her hips. ‘Or a hello would be good. Even if we did hate each other years ago. It was just an ideology thing, no big deal.’

Somehow, I’m sure she’s mocking me. I still don’t know how to respond. A warning really was needed, and I want to turn and hex Potter for throwing me into this.

‘Gin,’ Potter groans. ‘Give it a rest, will you? Where are the kids?’

‘Mum’s got them. Gladly, she claims. I don’t think Dad’s pleased as peaches about having so many young ones underfoot again when he’s trying to do his thing with the MP3 players, but--’ she shrugs and refocuses on me. ‘Heard you have one of your own now. You can brag about him while we tour. Harry’s got stuff to do.’

And then she’s taking my sleeve and pulling me along behind her. What is it with these people and the physical towing? If I weren’t so cowed, I would say something--but I have long since learned how difficult arguing with a pregnant woman is.

Potter stares after us, amusement and exasperation in his expression when I look back. He lifts his hands and turns, leaving me at her mercy.

Weasley is waiting for me at the other side of the room, facing a wall of curtains. ‘Help me open all of these, will you?’

Light fills the room slowly as we pull them back and I realise the walls are painted white. It exacerbates the effect, leaving the room wide and bright. Somehow I didn’t expect it, haven’t expected any of this really, and I stare around until she moves up next to me.

‘What’d you name your son?’ she asks, and there’s a true kind of curiosity in her question, a slight hesitation after the first word that gives her away. Why the woman is interested in my life is beyond me, but I answer. I always do about Scorpius. I know sometimes it’s not the wisest option to talk about one’s children, but... it’s honestly not as if Weasley would do anything. And I’d kill her if she tried in the first place.

‘Scorpius Hyperion,’ I answer carefully, finally turning to face her. She’s obviously not very far along into the pregnancy, though she is showing, and I wonder how she’s still so fit if this is her third. Astoria had taken a few months to lose the weight she’d gained, but Weasley looks as if the only part of her touched by the ordeal is her belly.

‘Black family tradition,’ she mutters, a slight frown on her face as she looks up at me. ‘I’m assuming he was born under that astrological sign?’

I purse my lips. ‘No, he was born near the end of August. He’ll just make the cut for the school year.’

‘Ah.’ Weasley tilts her heads, thinks for a moment. She doesn’t take her eyes off of me and it’s unnerving, really, because I remember her hexes from school and she has the same focus now. I don’t know if it’s just a thing for her or if she’s actually contemplating covering me in Bat Bogeys. I’m rather hoping it’s the previous. ‘He’ll be in the same year as Albus and Rose, then.’

‘Your younger son?’ I ask, because there’s not much else I can do. Part of me feels that if I keep her talking she can’t act against me, though rationally I’m well aware she could change moods on a whim. I recall vividly the time Astoria actually set my cloak on fire; she’d purchased another to replace it the next day in silent apology.

Weasley nods, a slight smile on her face now, and tilts her head, indicating I should follow her. ‘Mmm, a year old last week. Who’d you end up marrying again?’

It’s an abrupt change of subject, another personal question, and I trip on a step up into a bright dining room. The large sheet has been pulled off the table, and the wood gleams brightly, honey coloured. It really is disorienting--I’m still expecting something to suggest this was the home of a prominent Dark family.

‘Astoria Greengrass,’ I finally answer. ‘You probably didn’t know her. She was a year behind you, in Slytherin.’

She makes a slight face and then sighs as she looks around the room. ‘I don’t know what she was thinking, but it looks pretty good for nearly a decade of neglect, doesn’t it?’

I nod carefully, confused, blinking, and catch sight of the sheets all down the wall across from the windows. Curious, I flick my wand and step back as they fall to reveal a length of mirror that reflects every beam of light, every glint off of Weasley’s hair, every shadow on my face.

My expression is far too open.

Still, it’s a beautiful mirror, intricate designs twining around the giant frame. My hand rises to touch the bottom edge, cool glass pressed against my fingertips. When I step back, my fingerprints remain.

‘Ah, now this is more like her. I thought the rest of what I’ve seen so far was too simple.’ Weasley folds her arms and regards the mirror, almost exasperated. ‘Trust a half-Veela.’

As we walk through the room, taking sheets off of chairs and the chandelier hanging above, she’s quiet. I don’t mind it, because frankly I’m still trying to get myself under control. If I’m so wrongfooted that I can’t even lash out, there’s something off. I’m tempted to blame it on the fact that she’s pregnant, and almost-divorced, and I’ve questions I never thought I would have.

‘Why’d he bring me here?’ I finally ask, flicking my wand to Banish the pile of sheets into the laundry room somewhere below. ‘I’m _not_ going to do his housework for him.’

She turns again to glance at the mirror, then back to me. ‘I would suppose it has something to do with your book. Why are you writing it?’

I frown at the blunt question. All of her inquiries have been so. ‘That’s between me and him, actually. Mostly me.’

‘I know why he’s helping you, but why did you start in the first place? What are you hoping to accomplish? This isn’t some kind of trap?’

Something whooshes into place in my stomach and I straighten up, folding my arms across my chest and pursing my lips. ‘Oh, well, since you’ve figured it out, I’d best give up the game, hadn’t I? Yes, Weasley, it’s my purpose in life to carry out the Dark Lord’s failed task of ridding the world of Harry Potter and all the blood traitors and Mudbloods.’

Her wand is in my face a moment later. I stare down it’s length at her, impassive, heart pounding, and, oh, this is more familiar. Lovegood all over again, same as the rest of the Wizarding world. I’m untrustworthy, always will be, and this is a grudge she will never forgive.

But then her wand is lowering and she steps back, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. I don’t understand; my lips part, just for a second, and she shoves her wand into her back pocket. ‘Huh. You’re a little defensive, you know that?’ It’s not a criticism, and that strikes me. Hard.

A moment--then: ‘I know that.’

‘As long as you’re aware,’ she says, and she turns her back on me, looking over her shoulder only to motion me after her, eyebrows raised impatiently.

We find Potter in the drawing room upstairs, surveying a tattered green curtain hanging against the wall. The thread glints at me and I step forward, ignoring Potter’s presence, to bend down and inspect my family tree. My name is there, at the bottom, and I take a breath when I see the line connecting me to Astoria and, from that, Scorpius.

When I look up again, Potter and Weasley are seemingly having a silent conversation. I can read reactions, emotions, but I’ve no idea what the subject is. Weasley sighs finally and lifts her hands up above her head, rolling brown eyes. ‘Fine, have it your way then. I’m going to stop off at Mum’s for a while, see to the kids, and bring back lunch. We’ll finish up later, yes?’

Potter grins at her. ‘Sure thing. Um... can I have two?’

‘Sandwiches or children?’ she asks sweetly before she Disapparates.

He flops down onto one of the sofas in the room, gesturing me towards another. All these two do is boss me around, so this time I opt to stand, ignoring him in favour of staring at the glass-fronted china cupboard next to me. There are photo frames decorated with shells, a small blue bowl filled with Floo powder, and, on the upper shelves, tea sets and dishes stacked neatly.

‘So, what d’you think?’

‘What’s it matter what I think?’

‘Well, it’s _neat_ so I figured you’d at least make some scathing remark about that part not lasting long.’

I turn, and it’s--he’s--Potter is _teasing_ me, grinning at me upside down, and I feel like there’s a hook behind my stomach yanking me backwards, forward, drawing me inwards. I don’t understand.

‘Well,’ I say. And--‘Well. You no doubt will. Perhaps you should leave sheets on the furniture in rooms you won’t use. And employ a house elf or two to properly clean the place up. It smells old and closed up.’

Potter rolls over and stands up, approaches the window which faces down into a street below. I see we’re still in London, in the Kensington district, and I think about my own home just to the south. ‘Stuffy?’ He taps his wand against the glass and lifts the window open. A gust of cold air flows in and I inhale sharply. ‘Happy now?’ he asks, turning to face me, and I shake my head.

‘Am I ever?’

He watches me for a moment, and I feel the back of my neck flush. The question worth a million Galleons, it seems, but--I have an answer. A positive one. I’m happier since Scorpius’ birth than I have been throughout my whole life.

‘Well, I’m adding your magical signature to the wards so you can just Apparate over when we have a meeting. Next weekend, right?’ He leans against the arm of the sofa and I can’t breathe for a moment as I watch him.

It’s alarming to realise Potter’s actually somewhat attractive. Impossible not to notice, what with the way he’s standing, the way his denims cling to him. I shake my head. It’s been over a year since I had sex, after all, and that was with a woman. The last time I had a cock up my arse was nearly three years ago and I’m suddenly reminded of why I miss it so much.

I really shouldn’t go so long without at least wanking.

And I’m thinking about Potter, thinking about fucking Potter, thinking about Potter fucking me, with no idea how the images got into my head. I quickly amend my thoughts to replace him with a faceless bloke, and then I realise I’m standing in Potter’s drawing room, staring into space with the knowledge that wanting him in this way doesn’t surprise me as much as it should.

‘Right,’ I hastily answer. ‘If that’s all?’

He shrugs, and I’m gone.

-x-

‘So, wait, how far back are you going?’ Astoria sets down the parchment in front of her and reaches across the dining room table for my timeline. I tap my quill on the page, watching ink spread from the nub, and sigh.

‘Well, Potter’s got so much background information. For a Death Eater, I was relatively uniformed, it seems.’

She snorts and trades the timeline for my scattered notes from the first few meetings with Potter. It’s August now, weeks into our project, and I’m surprised to realise Astoria’s curiosity has pulled her on board. She’d disappeared for two days into the spare room to read my account of the war.

I don’t tell her I heard her crying.

I’m glad, though, in a way. She never understood the war, really; her parents had taken her out of school and out of the country after Dumbledore died, and she hadn’t had time to process it before then. Reading about it, even from the Death Eater’s side, had gotten it all across to her quite clearly.

‘This would be easier if... can he just use a Pensieve?’

‘He could,’ I acknowledge, ‘but it’s easier this way. In a Pensieve, I wouldn’t be able to hear his thought progression, but if he tells it to me like this....’

Astoria considers, shrugs, leans back in her chair. Her dressing gown is half-closed, her hair a ragged mess on the top of her head, wand sticking out of a pocket. I smile at her and she eyes me suspiciously before reaching out to kick me under the table. ‘Watch it. Look at me like that and I’ll start thinking you’re straight after all.’

I snort, flush, look down at the pages in front of me. I quickly look away from anything to do with Potter.

‘You should invite him over,’ she says, casual--oh-so-casual--and I know something must have slipped through.

‘How’d you know?’ I sigh, resting my chin on my knuckles.

She smirks. Her hands fold meekly on top of the table. ‘I’d just like to meet him, is all. I never spoke to him in school. I admit I’m as curious about the Saviour as the rest of the Wizarding world seems to be.’

I don’t know how women catch onto these things so quickly, with so little information, especially when I’m mostly just confused myself, but Astoria manages. She’s much more astute than I once gave her credit for, and, as a Slytherin, this both pleases and unnerves me.

I shrug and look back down at the page in front of me, scratching a line down the side of the parchment as I avoid her eyes. I think about Potter, who would be leaning back in his seat with his feet on the table, waving his wand around to make papers fly about overhead.

I hate it when he does so. It distracts me from my work. He’s always claiming it helps him focus, but I don’t see how it could.

Somehow, I _do_ see other things. His fingers wrapped around his wand, long and thin; his hips when he stretches, and I want to press my thumbs into the shadows there; his collarbones, just visible.

When I actually started looking for these things, I can’t quite say.

Though I bet Astoria could.

‘He eats with the Weasley clan every Sunday night,’ I inform her. ‘So he wouldn’t be able to come here. Sad, isn’t it?

She ‘hmms’ and stands up, tugging on my hair when she passes. ‘Don’t think I won’t find a way, love.’ Astoria grins at me, eyebrow quirked, and I shut my mouth, rubbing the side of my face.

‘Fuck.’

-x-

‘Why do you put up with him?’ Astoria laughs and some of the wine in her glass sloshes onto the table top, staining the cloth red. Nobody seems to care, because Weasley grins at her, grins at me, reaches out to steal a bean from Potter’s plate, and he just blinks at her, like I’m doing. ‘No, really, how the hell do you even get on with this prat? And don’t tell me Draco’s not a prat, because he is, he really, really is.’

I swipe my hand through my hair, lean back in my chair. Why, why, _why_ am I here?

‘No, no, he’s not so bad, honest! I mean, it’s a little inconvenient, yeah, from a wife’s perspective and all, but he’s great with Scorpius--better than I am, even--and generally he’s not as annoying as he was. Or something. Is Harry annoying? Is that why you divorced?’

It’s terribly rude of them to sit there talking about us so frankly, as if Potter and I aren’t here with them staring in different directions and wishing we could Stun them. And since when has my Society-Wife been so blunt, so eager, so talkative? Already the Weasley plague is spreading to her.

Though I must admit, I too am curious.

Weasley laughs, head thrown back, long hair hanging down the back of her chair. Her robes part over her belly, nearly nine months full, a hand rubbing absently in a way Astoria’s never did. She’s shaking her head. ‘Annoying, yes. But, well, here’s the thing--’

‘Ginny!’

Potter stares at her, disbelieving, and I’m amused. ‘No, no. Do go on, Ginevra.’

He stares at me now, stares at Astoria, looks down at the breadbasket, the wine bottle. ‘I’ll... be right back,’ he mutters.

It’s obvious that Weasley is going to tell by the way she’s giggling at us... and he seemingly thinks that being out of the room when she does so will make it seem as if she hasn’t. I grin at him, suddenly more cheerful, and he sighs, rolling his eyes. One of the napkins on the table starts folding itself into some oragami pattern and I smirk at the snake it forms. He leaves, and my wife and I eagerly turn to his ex.

‘So?’

Astoria leans forward, smile wide and friendly and _real_ even, until Weasley breaks into silent laughter again. ‘He--he--okay, so, it’s like this. So. Harry and I kind of got together before the war--or during, or whatever--and ended up taking a break because, you know, he was probably going to die or he was being noble or some shit like that. But we got back together, like, after?’

I sigh, lifting my eyes to the ceiling because this is too far back. Obviously Astoria finds it intriguing, since she’s finally quieted down, and I force myself to listen lest I stop paying attention entirely and miss her explanation. She drones on, giggling and snorting and helped along by my wife. It’s things I’ve heard before, about their wedding, about James, about Albus. But then--

‘Things got kind of weird. I mean, they had been weird before, for a while, since Al, maybe? But I just really started noticing and--like, the sex, I could _tell_ because it wasn’t at all as adventurous as it was before, and let me tell you, I’m a Quidditch player, right? I’m flexible, sex was _not_ boring. And then suddenly it is!’ She throws her hands up and Astoria looks at me, no longer laughing. I grimace, look away, because now that I actually like the woman, I’m a little sorry I can’t take care of her needs for her that way, not the way she wants it.

Weasley seems to catch this look between us; she pauses, glances at me, at Astoria, back at me, and then barrels on. ‘Well, maybe you know more than I think you do or maybe you’re pitying me, either way. So I start asking about it, voicing my opinions and everything, and Harry just retreats. Which was weird, really, since he rarely backs down. Gryffindor pride and stubbornness, you know? Finally, one day, we’re trying to feed the kids and he puts down James’ spoon and looks up at me and I know.’

Astoria frowns, tilts her head. ‘Wait, wait, know what? Know how?’

Weasley leans forward again, one hand on the table now, eyes wide. ‘He told me he was bi.’

Astoria knocks over her wine glass and I nimbly flick my wand at it, catching the liquid midair.

‘Excuse me?’ I don’t know which of us is more surprised.

‘Bisexual. So I’m staring at him, kind of lost, and he just starts panicking, saying he loves me but he’s curious and he doesn’t want to disrespect me or--I don’t even know, but it brassed me right off. Think you know a guy, right?’

I should expect it. I _would_ from Pansy, by now, but from Astoria? It’s the only excuse I have for not reacting when she says, ‘Oh, _believe_ me, I get it.’

Weasley pauses, lifts an eyebrow, looks at me. ‘Oh, Godric. Is he really?’

‘Worse. He’s gay, as in, I don’t ever get sex. Ever. Do you have any idea how frustrating that is? As soon as the honeymoon ended, the sex portion of our relationship was over. Done with. Never happened again.’ She slashes her hand in front of her, eyes wide, and continues, ‘But really, what is it with men these days?’

I want to crawl under the table, manners be damned, and die. I venomously hope my body decomposes there and fills the house with horrible smells and that Potter can’t live here anymore and that his wife and my wife get locked in and die.

But really, I’m not cruel, nor am I a barbarian. And so I stand, sigh, and say, ‘Really now, Tori, I’m under the impression you’ve had rather a lot to drink. I’ll just... go stop Potter from bringing you more wine, shall I?’

‘No, no, wait! Oh, Draco, oh, I have the best idea. Astoria, it’s the best idea ever.’ Weasley grabs my sleeve as I try to slip behind her chair. She’s nearly quivering, which is frightening, and she hasn’t even been drinking. If this is how she is all the time, I can see why Potter might have lied about the whole bisexual thing.

Astoria smirks, waits, until--‘Okay, so, your husband is gay and mine is supposedly bisexual. My ex-husband, whatever, Draco, alright? Anyway, I say supposedly because he’s _never had sex with a man before_. So, so, I mean, what if we, I dunno, put them together and then voila! You see! They could, I mean, they could _try it._ Can you even imagine?’

Mortified, I stand in place, sharp little noises of shock in my throat as my uptight and perfect pureblood wife thinks about it. She brightens, grinning, and says, ‘Well, I never thought of that. I was just mad he couldn’t do anything for me, but, well, I’m sure, you know, oh Salazar, watching, Ginny, can’t you even--?’

‘Astoria!’

‘Ginny!’

Potter stands in the doorway, sputtering, and I’m stuck in place, staring, incapable of breathing, really. It’s just--it’s--I can’t even--

Why the fuck would I ever put these two women together? What was I thinking?

And then I remember it’s Astoria’s fault, her craft and cunning that got us places at this table in this company.

‘Did you, I’m just guessing wildly, poison your ex-wife by chance?’ I ask faintly, tugging away from her as she nearly falls out of her seat, gasping with laughter and fanning herself. ‘Hit her with a Confundus Charm? Expose her to Lovegood one time too many?’

‘What’s the excuse for your wife then?’ Potter shoots back, and his neck is flushed. He’s holding the bottle of wine behind his back, hiding it from them uselessly--they wouldn’t notice if a Blasting Curse hit the table right now. Batty things.

‘She’s _drunk_.’ Which is quite obvious. I glance at her, gesturing, and find myself blinking again, lips parted. Potter snorts before he can help it and I slap my hand to my face. ‘Oh, fucking just get it over with and AK me, sod it all, you fucking bints.’

He shakes his head, smiling helplessly, and gestures me to follow as he turns back around. ‘Let’s just... leave them be for a moment.’

The kitchen is quiet, darker, and I fall into a seat at the table, groaning. ‘You don’t happen to have beer? I think I need one after that unmitigated disaster.’

Potter snorts and hands me one before taking a seat opposite me. He shakes his head, slowly, exasperated. ‘I told you this would happen. You encouraged it, even, by asking Ginny about the divorce.’

‘How was that encouraging anything? I wanted to know!’

‘You’re too nosy.’

‘Your wife is insane. And--and--voyeuristic!’

He pauses, grimaces. ‘Yes, well, that part is true. Ex-wife, by the way. Everyone always forgets that part.’

We’re silent for a moment, sipping at our beers, and then I tentatively set mine down, drag my finger through the ring of condensation gathered at the bottom. ‘Erm. So, were you lying to Weasley so she’d divorce you or are you really bisexual? And, hang on, why should that matter? You’re still attracted to women so that should have nothing to do with your wife.’ I stare at him, eyes narrowed. Things don’t make sense.

He sighs and pretends to read the label on his bottle. ‘Well, erm, it’s like...’ Pauses, frowns, tries again. ‘It’s just that, y’know, she thought it wasn’t fair that I didn’t know part of myself. Plus, she was getting bored and we never let ourselves explore other options. We’re all each other’s ever known, you know? So, I dunno, it was terrible timing but it kind of just happened. We agreed it might be better to split. It’s not fair to her if I’m lusting after everyone who walks down the street either.’

‘That is _not_ bisexual. That is the lot of the human libido, actually.’

Potter rolls his eyes, takes a deep breath, and finally looks at me straight on. In the dim lighting, his eyes are dark, shadowed, intense, and I have to forcibly will myself not to bite my lip. ‘You’re gay, though.’

‘Astute.’ My bottle clunks down on the table top. I sigh, giving in. ‘But yes, I am.’

‘How’d you know?’

There’s a lot to be said for the passage of time. Ten years ago, had I known this about Potter, I would have used it to my every advantage--nay, until there wasn’t a single person in the Wizarding world who didn’t know. Now I’m here, in his kitchen, actually thinking about answering a personal question. We _discuss_ now, rather than argue; and to be honest, I wish we’d started long ago. Contrary to beliefs I once held dear, he can be... intelligent, interesting.

I shrug. ‘I just did. I mean, I tried that thing with Pansy, in school, and that never worked out. I guessed it wouldn’t but I went through with it for her and... I found myself thinking about other chaps a lot, always had. It just kind of dawned on me that women didn’t interest me as much. Nothing too complicated.’

‘Yet you’re married.’ He rolls his empty bottle between his hands, frowning again.

‘Indeed.’

And then--‘You don’t think Ginny really meant that?’

I glare, respond without thinking, loud words and frustration and--fuck it, I’m thinking about it, wanting it, and Weasley needs to die for encouraging me because just the thought-- imagining Potter crawling up on the table between us, yanking me to him by the collar of my shirt, his lips on mine, my hands in his hair, tugging, pulling, trying to mould us into one and--no, fuck, _fuck_.

When we leave that night, the dam is broken.

I end up wanking to the memory of Potter’s eyes in the kitchen, to realising his wife might be onto something.

I don’t even hate myself for it.

-x-

When Potter Floos the house the next day, Astoria is the one to answer. I’m in the other room, trying to get Scorpius to eat, when the man strides in, panicked--parchments fly from their neat stack as he stalks past them, whipping through the air in a frenzy that blocks Astoria from following him.

‘Malfoy, Malfoy, Ginny’s having contractions and I think she needs St Mungo’s. I think it’s time. Oh bloody fuck, why doesn’t this get any easier each time? Malfoy, I need you to come to Mungo’s with me.’

I stare at him, aware that Scorpius’ rice pudding is slowly sliding down my wrist, and then look at Astoria. Her expression seems torn between amusement and annoyance, and she lifts her eyebrows at me as if it’s simple. Maybe it is.

‘Why?’

Potter blinks at me, opens his mouth, shuts it. ‘Erm. That’s... really a good question. I... panicked?’

‘Obviously.’ I turn back to my son, wiping the food off of his face and my hand. ‘Were you perhaps looking for one of the Weasley clan?’

‘They’re on vacation, actually. Which is shit timing. She’s slightly early.’ He shuffles in place and the papers finally settle on the floor. I’ll have to reorganise them later, which I’m not happy about, but it’s entertaining to see him awkward and thrown off rather than calm and so bloody sure of himself. ‘So, well, I might actually mean it.’

Astoria walks forward, laying a hand on his arm. ‘She’ll be fine, you know. Do you want both of us or just him?’

He smiles at her. ‘Er, both of you, I think. I mean, well, you’ve gone through the pregnancy thing, obviously, and Malfoy can keep me company and stop me from accidentally Stunning anyone who walks too close, yeah?’

‘Am I allowed to Stun _you_ to prevent that?’

Potter smiles--just a little--and I look back at my son, uncomfortable, too warm. I shouldn’t feel anything because he’s grateful to me, let alone anything like _this_. I can’t even claim it’s because _grateful_ looks good on him--though it does--and this is unsettling. ‘What are we going to do with Scorpius?’

‘Your mother?’

‘What about yours?’

‘Out of town with Daph, meeting her newest boyfriend. As per usual.’

I sigh. ‘My parents are in France right now and I have strict instructions not to bother them. I suppose he’ll just... have to come with us. If he gets sick, though, Potter is going to be staying up all hours to nurse him back to health.’

And that is an image I quickly erase from my memory.

Potter ends up Apparating Astoria to Weasley’s place to get her while I Floo to Mungo’s with Scorpius to let them know ahead of time. It’s a flurry of motion I step into when I’m through the flames, and I hold Scorpius close to my chest. Too many people, too much going on, and no one is giving us a second glance.

The nurse I manage to snag looks harried, but she blinks when I mention the name ‘Potter’ and focuses. By the time Potter shows up, his ex-wife and mine in tow, holding both of his sons, there’s a Healer waiting by the welcome desk. I suppose fame has its perks, among them the ability to get in and out as quickly as possible.

When Weasley’s settled in her room, I step out into the hallway, finding a seat to wait in. Potter joins me fifteen minutes later, one of his sons in his arms. The oldest is down in the children’s centre playing, but I guess I understand why it’s necessary.

‘It’ll be a fast one,’ he says--sighs, really--leaning up against the wall next to me. He repositions Albus nervous, and I look up at his face. He looks different from this angle, and I _should not be imaging myself giving him a blow job right now_. I _should not be_ thinking about his cock, about his hands in my hair, about the pain I’d feel in my knees from the tile, about the reaction of anyone within sight.

I close my eyes, look away. ‘Yeah?’

‘So says the Healer, anyway.’ He jostles Albus again when the kid starts to get loud, wipes his palm on his denims, picks at his nails, until I finally reach out and touch his forearm.

Potter focuses on me and I stare up at him. ‘She’ll be fine. Now stop fidgeting before I hex you. I don’t want to get escorted from the premises. Well.’ He smiles at me, grateful again, and I shift Scorpius in my arms uncomfortably. ‘Sit.’

I can hear Astoria and Weasley talking, just the murmur of their voices in the room, can hear the Healer when he finally starts giving instructions. Frowning, I glance sideways at my companion. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in there holding her hand and shit?’

He blinks at me, a reluctant smile pulling up the corners of his lips. ‘Erm, well, after Al? She says she prefers me out here, honestly.’ I lift an eyebrow--he sighs, flushes, admits--‘My, er, my magic went a little wild and kind of... just, anyway, there was a mishap and she’d rather not go through it again.’

We’re quiet, his anxiety thrumming in the air between us. It crackles almost inaudibly but I understand what he was talking about. My magic doesn’t manifest with my emotions, largely because I don’t allow much to show on the surface, but Potter... he’s always been volatile, that Gryffindor temper and honesty visible, tangible, at times more than others. Sitting this close to him, where I can literally _feel_ his magic brushing against exposed skin, sends shivers down my spine. I’m not sure if its arousal or fear or a mixture, and I’m torn between moving or allowing it to roll over me.

He wipes his palm against his denims again and I stare down at Scorpius. He’s chewing at some toy, oblivious. It’s been just over a year since I was in Potter’s position. ‘Astoria didn’t let me in the room,’ I tell him quietly. ‘I was furious.’

‘But. Wait, but you’re the one who... Why?’ Potter frowns, shifts in his seat to look at me, and the prickling along the back of my neck lessens as he’s distracted.

I sigh. ‘We... weren’t on the best of terms for a long time. She resented me and it put a strain on our relationship. At that point, the only thing I was living for was Scorpius. That I couldn’t even be in the room at his birth.... And _my_ magic is entirely under my control,’ I add, titling my chin up and glaring at him.

A moment, and then--‘Why didn’t you divorce?’

‘It’s fine now, isn’t it?’ Uncomfortable, I shrug. Spilling my life story to my childhood rival wasn’t in my plans for the day, and I’m not sure how I ended up here.

We’re allowed in an hour later. The sight of my wife hovering eagerly over Potter and Weasley, asking about names, reaching out to touch the baby’s cheek lightly, sets something in me on edge. I swallow it down, can’t begrudge her, and she looks up at me, smiles, gestures.

I sit lightly on the edge of the bed next to them, looking at the child because I can’t help it. Small, damp, wrinkled. She reminds me of Scorpius. ‘We were thinking either Lily or Luna,’ Potter says, voice low, eyes absolutely _fixed_ on the girl. ‘What do you think?’

There are times when I wonder why he asked for my opinion, why he glanced up at me just for that moment, and then I stop wondering why. All that matters is he did, and I felt it, and I knew.

He becomes Harry then.

-x-

It’s the middle of October when Harry tells me he’s given me all the information he can.

We’re sitting in his dining room, a bottle of Chianti open between us, and his feet are on the table again, Lily sleeping on his chest. Weasley is somewhere upstairs resting. Despite the fact that they’re no longer married and indeed have their own houses, it’s as if nothing has changed for them. I’m used to it by now.

I set my quill down to look up at him with my full attention. ‘What do you mean, that’s it?’

He shrugs, lifts his eyebrows and glances over my shoulder. ‘Well, I mean, we got up to when Voldemort died, didn’t we? That constitutes as the end of the war to me.’

‘What about the after-effects? The consequences? How things changed afterward?’

Harry meets my eyes and there’s something like... it can’t be pity, there’s no reason for it to be pity. ‘You don’t really need my input for those things, Draco.’

I blink at him and a part somewhere inside of me is slowly running out of air. I take a deep breath--it doesn’t help--and purse my lips. ‘I don’t _know_ all the ramifications. I don’t even know which Death Eaters really died, or were sent to prison, or given house arrest like my father. Or, fuck, even those that are still free today.’

‘You could speak to the Auror Office and ask for their records?’

‘Because they’re ever so likely to just hand me that information.’ It’s strange how I’ve managed to forget exactly how much the world despises me in recent months. I’ve been so busy I haven’t noticed, but it’s still _there_ , simmering, that constant distrust. If he thinks they’ll even allow me in Auror Headquarters unless I’m bound, wandless, and Stunned, he’s gone mental.

Bitter, I lean back in my chair and run my hand through my hair. The mirror behind Harry mocks me, shows me how rumpled I look, and I didn’t mind ten minutes ago. I do now, because I have nothing else to focus on.

Perhaps this is more than a distraction now. It seems all I know how to do is move from one obsession to the next and I haven’t had time to think of a new one yet.

‘I could ask Ron to let me know,’ Potter suggests. ‘I’m sure he’d do it.’

‘Ron would what?’ Weasley pads into the room, yawning; she pauses to touch Lily on her nose before she looks up at me. ‘H’lo, Draco.’

‘Ginevra. Astoria sends her regards.’ She dismisses the frostiness of my greeting, smiles. It’s no less unlikely than anything else in my life at this point, but they’ve become friends. Once more, I’ve absolutely no clue as to how circumstances allowed it.

‘Draco needs information about what happened to all the Death Eaters after the war.’ Harry yawns too, leans back further, and if Lily wasn’t sleeping on his chest still I’d tip the chair over and laugh at him.

Weasley shrugs. ‘I’ll owl Ron later. See you next week, Draco? Hey, bring Astoria, yeah?’

With that, I’m ushered through the Floo and I arrive back in my study, lips parted, indignant.

Tori laughs at me.

-x-

 _Protegus_ is busier than usual when I slip into the back room a few weeks later. Sabine barely blinks at me, which leads me to believe Harry told her not to give me any trouble. She usually has something to say to me now, something snotty and prissy. I think she’s under the impression that I don’t understand French.

I do, of course.

Harry gives me a brief wave of acknowledgement, all he can spare from the patron he’s working with, and points at his office. I’m early, just slightly, and I make sure to take his chair behind the desk. I waste a few minutes clearing a spot to write, and am bent under the desk fetching my quill when Ronald Weasley walks in; I can see his boots falter in the doorway and quickly sit up straight, narrowly missing the underside of the desk.

‘Ah, Weasley.’ Trying to gather myself proves futile and I heave a sigh as he sits carefully across from me. His fingers play with the wand holster at his wrist, nervous, all wary energy and vague discomfort but he nods a silent greeting at me.

‘Harry said you needed background information on the Death Eaters after the war? For that book you’re writing?’

I nod, uncork my ink. ‘Yes, I’d like to cover the ramifications of the war entirely, delving into the rebuilding of Hogwarts and those who fought throughout it. I can’t name all of the victims, of course, but I’d at least like to cover what I know or have found out.’

‘And how’m I supposed to know you’re not using this information to plan an uprising or gather with other Death Eaters?’ It’s not delivered in the accusatory tone I’d have expected. It’s more of a statement, a genuine curiosity, and I hate it all the more.

Sighing, I cap my ink again and shake my head. Why I thought it would be anything more than this, I’m not sure--but I am. And it has to do with Harry, with Ginevra, with that odd bond that’s sprung up between our families.

Not his family.

It’s only after I’ve gotten to my feet that Weasley rises to his. ‘I was actually asking a question I wanted the answer to.’

‘Even if I could prove beyond a doubt that I won’t use the information for malicious purposes, you’d still be sceptical. And I can’t prove it, I don’t know what would satisfy you.’ The words taste bitter on my tongue, or maybe that’s resentment, anger.

Maybe I don’t deserve this bullshit anymore. Maybe I’m a different person than I once was, because aren’t we all?

But Weasley shuts the door with a flick of his wand and I find myself staring at the wood. Slowly, I turn to face him.

I’m surprised to find him sitting again, waving me back towards Harry’s chair. He purses his lips, disapproval clear in his eyes, but says, ‘Ginny trusts you. Harry trusts you. If only for those reasons, I can give you your bloody information. But if you use it in any way to harm the people I love, I’ll kill you myself, protocol or not. Vengeance might be worth my job.’

And so I sit. Listen. Take notes.

It’s worrisome to me to hear how many Death Eaters are still on the loose, this long after the war. How many are still alive, imprisoned. There’s a small amount of those who are dead. Greyback’s whereabouts are unknown. Others are being tracked.

It’s a quick fact about each, until he reaches my name, looks up at me with cold eyes, a ‘Pardoned’ on his lips.

I think about Harry.

He continues until the end, hovers as I look down at my notes, dismay coiling in my stomach. ‘Don’t make me regret this,’ he says.

I already do.

-x-

When I meet with Gamp, she accepts the manuscript from me with grace, passing it off to an underling to get it printed up for an editor to read over as a first draft. It’s only when she asks if she’ll be conducting any meetings with Mr Potter that I realise something. She doesn’t like me, which I knew. I am but a viable means to an end, after all. I find myself wanting to throw all six hundred pages in her face because I _know_ she’d love to cut my name out and publish it under his. She’d make more money that way and we both know it.

Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to work with Potter on this.

But then I wouldn’t know Harry and, well, that’s nearly unacceptable.

-x-

I have the first meeting with my editor, Clarissa McFarlen, three weeks later. It goes well enough until she starts questioning events which I can’t defend, as my source isn’t here to back me up. Instead, I ask her to focus on the perspectives of the Death Eaters in the first few chapters and talk about her overall impression.

She despises me. We argue so much in those first two hours that I have a headache by the time I leave. I’m starting to think it’ll take longer to edit the book than it took to write it, which is saying something considering I took a year off in the middle.

Astoria soothes me, lets me vent about it while I bathe Scorpius. She has me laughing soon, slopped with water, smelling of baby powder and soap. When she kisses my cheek as she takes him from me, I smile at her.

‘Would you have thought things could turn out like this?’ I ask her as we’re settling into bed for the night.

She scratches her ribs, yawning in my face as she crawls under the comforter. She fluffs her pillow before she looks back at me, eyebrow raised like a question mark. ‘How so?’

‘When I first started courting you, did you think it could turn out like this?’ I repeat. I rub my towel against my hair, watching as she considers.

Astoria frowns, purses her lips, shrugs, smiles. ‘It’s not really worth wondering about, is it? Things are how they are and, while it’s not what I would have imagined, it’s not bad overall. I’m going Christmas shopping with Ginny tomorrow, you remember--taking Scorpius, so don’t worry when you can’t find him.’

I roll my eyes, settling in with her and resuming my conversation about the book as she falls asleep, a lock of her hair between my fingers, her fingertips pressed against my hip like an anchor.

-x-

By February, I’m fed up. McFarlen must be the least helpful woman on the planet. It’s gotten to the point where we can barely go over ten pages per meeting now, and, finally, I give up. I bring Potter in with me.

He fidgets in the waiting room, tugging at his forelock, rubbing his palms on his jeans, shaking his foot until I meet his gaze calmly, my fingertips just touching the back of his hand. When he calms, offers me an apologetic smile, I yank my hand back.

Such power is not for me.

But it is, ever so much. I want it, that power, that control, that influence. Not because I’m a Slytherin, not because power is attractive to me, but because it’s foreign and it’s balance; because, if he’d exercise it, Harry would have just as much power over me. It terrifies me, electrifies me, too much to ignore it however much I might want to.

‘I can’t believe you talked me into this.’

‘I didn’t _talk you into it._ ’ I roll my eyes, sighing, and now I’m the one fidgeting in my seat. He smirks at me until I stop. ‘You said maybe it would help if you came to meet the bitch so she wouldn’t treat me like I know nothing,’ I remind him.

Harry’s smirk turns into a smile then, and I know why all too well. He’s a caretaker. All he does is care for people, help them, and it’s all he wants to do. It--for some reason still foreign to me--makes him happy. And to find I’m one of those people he wants to protect when years ago the concept would have been laughable.... To be quite honest, I can maybe see why it pleases him. Not because a debt will be owed, but because it feels like Butterbeer going down his throat, warm and smooth. It doesn’t quite work like that for me, probably never will, but I can respect--maybe, to a degree, understand--his viewpoint.

‘How long do you think we’ll be here?’

I shake my head, examine my fingernails. ‘I’ve honestly no idea. My appointment is the last of the day so if the editor feels like it we can stay after. I doubt she will--in fact, I’m assuming we’ll end up leaving sooner rather than later--but it’s all up in the air. Why?’

‘You know Astoria is staying with Ginny tonight?’

He grins at me, a kind of self-pitying amused smile, and I grimace in response, simultaneously wanting to laugh. ‘Ah, I’d managed to forget. Salazar help us.’

One of the assistants hurries into the waiting room, waves her hand at me impatiently until she recognises my companion when he stands, folding his scarf over his forearm. Her mouth drops open just a bit and she sputters out a, ‘Right this way, sirs.’

McFarlen has the book on her desk when we walk in. She doesn’t look up--she usually avoids looking at me when she can help it. ‘Sit, Malfoy, and let’s get this over with. This section about the day to day activities within the Order of the Phoenix headquarters is boring. It’s not necessary. They’re a group of heroes, who cares if they’re fighting mildew?’

Potter’s eyebrows rise and he glances at me as I take my seat. I push out the chair next to me, gesturing for him to take it. ‘If you feel that way, I suggest you take it up with Mr Potter.’

She laughs, a sharp bark of incredulous annoyance. ‘You see, I would prefer to, but, seeing as--’

‘Seeing as what, precisely?’ Harry asks, hands folded across his stomach. McFarlen whips her head up, eyes wide behind her glasses, and blinks at him in a rather decent impersonation of Sabine. I really do think there’s something about him that reduces a person to blinking.

He reduces me to much less than just that.

‘Mr Potter! I--I had no idea you were coming today! Please, forgive my rudeness. Of course, of course, you’re welcome to be here! Would you like any tea, coffee, juice?’

Harry shakes his head, a smirk hidden at the corner of his mouth. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you. Draco, would you like anything?’

I know he’s needling her. It makes me smile at him, unguarded even in front of this woman I hate, just for a moment. I refuse and settle back in my chair, willing and ready to watch the subsequent fallout.

She’s much more polite than I’ve ever known her to be, and Harry bowls over all of her feeble attempts at rewriting facts and entire sections. On occasion she looks at me as if she’d like nothing less than to decorate the room with my entrails and I manage to find a bland smile for her. I’m done going head to head by myself in this impasse and I’ve chosen my ally wisely. She stands no chance against the two of us, united as we so often are of late.

After two hours, Harry finally deems himself satisfied with the amount of work we’ve got edited today. He stands, thanks her, and waits for me as I fasten my cloak and scarf. ‘Dinner before we have to go find our wives and take away the wine bottles?’

-x-

‘I can’t believe she’s really as much of a bitch as you told me,’ he admits as we seat ourselves. It’s a darker corner, the fire a steady glow across the room, and the golden-red tones are beyond flattering. I try not to notice.

‘What, don’t you trust me?’ I smirk behind my menu, because I know that he does, somehow, and that feels better than I had ever once imagined being trusted by anyone could.

He snorts. ‘To a degree, yes, but you tend to exaggerate.’

‘I do not.’

I’m met with silence, and when I lower my menu, his expression is so sceptical that I have to laugh.

It’s pleasant to sit around with him, talking of nothing, making our way through a bottle of wine on our own. In our dark corner, I can almost pretend. I can see myself scooting my chair around the table until my arm is pressed up against his, can nearly feel his laughter shaking me, can imagine the heat of his skin, the heat of his mouth as he turns his head to press his lips to my jaw. I close my eyes against the onslaught and when I open them he’s watching me, serious, curious, and almost surprised by something; I have to swallow and look away before he has time to see my thoughts so clearly written in the softening of my gaze.

‘Draco?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Would it be so bad if you divorced Astoria?’

I look at him then and I feel lightheaded, all too aware of my breathing, of my heartbeat. ‘I... I can’t divorce her. It’s--as a pureblood--people would--’ I don’t know how to explain it properly. I shake my head but when I glance up, his eyes are still on me, watching, deducing, possibly understanding. ‘I wish, sometimes, that I could,’ I admit lowly.

He moves, just slightly, tilting his head, and if I were closer I would take it as an invitation.

And then the Bond on my wrist flares, brightly, tightening until my fingers go numb, spasm. My eyes go wide, a sound of surprise and pain--familiar pain--burning--constricting--

I can hear Harry, voice frantic, but it’s as if he’s underwater. I’m unaware, and yet I’m so, so very aware.

Fear, surprise, pain. _So much pain._

I Disapparate.

-x-

The house is quiet. Part of me insists that it’s just because Astoria is at Weasley’s already. She and Scorpius aren’t here.

But then I stumble down the hall and there she is, sprawled in front of the fireplace, pale, _why is she so pale, that can’t be her blood around her--_

It is though, I know. I recognise the spell used, can remember all too well the pain in my chest, as if the scalding claws of some great beast had dug in, were still digging in, as if melting the skin so that it could never cover the wound again. Screaming, fearful, and then it was fading, slipping away as the blood ran out of my chest, as the life inside me prepared to blink out.

I fall to my knees beside her, hands shakily taking the cloak on the floor next to her and pressing it against the angry, deep lines across her shoulders and upper back. I watch the tremor of my fingers I push her hair aside and press them against her neck, hoping, praying--there’s a pulse.

My eyelids fall closed, but no, I don’t have time. I rush to my feet, cast a Stabilising Charm on her and hope it works long enough for me to find Scorpius. He’s not here, though, not anywhere in the house, and I scramble back to the fireplace, throwing in a handful of Floo powder. My heart beats too steadily, panic the only thing propelling me.

Weasley is holding Scorpius, staring at the fire place, exasperation clear in her expression. ‘Finally! How long does it take to get--Draco? What-?’

‘Hospital. Astoria. Take care of him, please,’ I order--ask, plead--and pull back. There’s no time to feel relieved.

We’re at Mungo’s ten seconds later.

-x-

It feels like ages that we’re waiting. My mother sits on my right, her hand twined with mine, staring straight ahead, and I’m aware of Harry on my other side, silent but there, and it means more to me than I’ve ever allowed it to before.

There are reasons now. There are Aurors in our home looking for evidence, for magical residue, for anything they can use.

Astoria’s mother and sister are both here. Daphne has Scorpius, is bouncing him while she forces her mother to talk. I hadn’t realised she was so strong--I remember her helping me with Scorpius that first moment, how calm she was; I remember what she’d told Astoria, how that helped our marriage. I’m grateful to her, and it’s not because she looks like her sister, not because she’ll be the only Greengrass left if--

I close my eyes, breathe in, striving for calm.

There’s a bit of a commotion. I take another breath before I look, only half-surprised to see it’s Weasley--the Auror, not Ginny--stalking across the floor towards us.

‘Mrs Malfoy, Mrs Greengrass, Ms Greengrass,’ he says, and hesitates before he looks at me. ‘Mr Malfoy.’

Harry sits up at my side, leans forward. His elbow brushes my leg and I don’t move away.

‘The Aurors may have apprehended Ms Malfoy’s assailant. We have the suspect in custody, and they will be undergoing questioning as soon as the suspect is... in their right mind and we get the paperwork for Veritaserum through. I’ll report back to you as soon as possible,’ he assures us, calm, serious, responsible.

I’m furious, numb. I can’t spare thought for whoever is responsible or I’ll have committed a murder before rising from my chair. I have to stay here, in this seat, and wait to hear news of my wife.

I hate it.

Weasley leaves only to be replaced by his sister not fifteen minutes later. She’s childless, has probably dropped the kids off at her parents’, and she swoops down on me immediately, clinging to me. I can feel a single tear on my collarbone and I swallow harshly, hugging her back because there’s a bond between us all, not like the one that’s pale and weak on my wrist, threatening to slip away, but something stronger, invisible.

When the Healer tells us Astoria will live, I squeeze Weasley’s hand so hard she winces through her smile.

-x-

‘Do you know I’ve always hated the hospital?’ She sets a card cautiously on top of the house we’re building and grins at me. Weak, but no less alive, Astoria has so far won every childish game of Exploding Snap we’ve started.

‘Is that why you refused to have Scorpius here?’ I ask, carefully placing my own card and holding my breath until it’s steady.

‘That and sometimes the hospital doesn’t like doing the family charms right away,’ she answers, and I can see she would shrug if it didn’t pull at the newly-scarred skin of her back. I’ve only seen it once, and my fingers shook as I brushed her hair out of the way, trailed them down over what used to be smooth. They’re slightly raised, red and vivid against her back right now, though the Healers have assured us they’ll fade to something manageable. We’re lucky she’s alive and we’ll take what we can get.

She glances at me slyly and I know to suspect. ‘Don’t you find it funny that Pansy isn’t the one taking care of Scorpius even though she’s his godmother?’

‘Ginny volunteered to take him for a few days so Daphne could get some sleep,’ I remind her. ‘It’s not Pansy’s fault you accepted.’

She quietly adds another card and I can almost see the moment she turns serious. ‘I’m glad Scorpius is with Ginny and Harry. They can protect him better than Pansy.’

I sigh and rub at my forehead, leaning back in my chair. ‘I know,’ I admit. ‘You know Weasley is coming today to let us know what’s going on with their case?’

Astoria nods, lifts her eyebrows and gestures at the card house. ‘Yes, I’m aware. I’d rather not think about it until later, if you don’t mind. Put your next card on, please.’ I drop it onto the stack and lean back as it falls apart with a loud _crack_ , the card disappearing in a cloud of blue smoke. ‘I win.’

She’s sleeping when Weasley arrives. I see him glance at me before he looks at her, clearing his throat, hands behind his back. He’s less confident than he was when we met in _Protegus,_ probably because the Gryffindor in him pities me, or pities Astoria, the only woman stupid enough to marry me. ‘Should we wake her?’

‘No,’ I murmur, reaching out to straighten the sheet from where it’s caught around her wrist. ‘You can just keep your voice down, if you don’t mind.’

He sighs and stands at the foot of her bed, looking down at the file in his hands. ‘You’re not going to like this, but you’ve got to stay calm or I’ll have to arrest you for attempted murder, got it?’

‘By stay calm you mean...?’

‘Stay in the room.’

I’m tempted to roll my eyes, because it’s really quite a daft request, but Weasley actually seems to expect a reaction from me and that’s a little worrisome. ‘As you wish.’ I shrug with one shoulder, quirking a brow at the man.

Weasley scratches the back of his head and tells me, ‘We hadn’t known after the war how he got away or where he disappeared to, which you obviously knew, since I gave you that list of the information we had on the Death Eaters. Fenrir Greyback--’

I stare. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Fenrir Greyback, aged sixty-one, known werewolf and Death Eater,’ he says, glancing up at me. ‘Caught by one of the city’s werewolf packs on the night in question, further apprehended by the Ministry hours later.’

It’s quiet, just for a moment, before I swallow. The rooms seems to tilt for a moment, just a moment, and then it’s steady again. ‘Greyback. They’re sure this--the scars--they thought it was _Sectumsempra_ \--’

‘It was,’ Weasley assures me. That I should ever feel relieved to know someone had been the victim of that terrible curse would have been impossible three days ago. ‘It was the last spell used by his wand, and we’re lucky, honestly, that he got there before the moon was fully up or... well. We’re lucky.’

‘What was his motive?’

I start, glance down to the bed where Astoria’s eyes are open. She meets my eyes, smiles--something small and brave--and looks to Weasley. He seems hesitant, surprised even, but he shrugs awkwardly. ‘Er, what we got out of his confession is something to do with your book, Malfoy.’

Astoria makes a sound of understanding. I close my eyes, squeeze my fingers into a fist. What have I done?

She’s calm, though, and Salazar damn me if I don’t admire her--maybe I do love her, the way I love Pansy, the way I love my mother. All I want to do is protect her, keep her safe and happy insomuch as I actually can, and here my work--that book, the one she warned me about--has directly resulted in the scars across her back.

‘Well,’ she says, and her voice only wavers slightly, ‘I suppose I can say _I told you so_ now, can’t I?’

‘Not funny.’

‘No, it usually isn’t.’ Astoria sighs, rolls onto her side with a grimace.

Hand shaking, I reach out to brush her hair back. ‘I’m sorry.’ She blinks up at me and there’s surprise in her eyes. We so rarely admit we’ve done wrong. ‘I should have listened to you.’

She seems to think for a moment, contemplative. Something stubborn crosses her expression and she shakes her head with a sigh. ‘No, you were right to go through with it. How did Greyback learn about the book?’ she asks Weasley.

He looks uncomfortable still, standing awkwardly, gangling rather than lean, and I remember him as a teenager, tall and lanky and still growing into himself. We really aren’t so grown up, no matter how we all pretend.

‘Apparently one of the editors at Gamp & Flouril let it slip in a public setting how much she, er, despised working on a certain book full of Death Eater plots. She waxed on a little about you, Malfoy, about the book in general--sitting in the middle of a bar and having a private conversation which wasn’t so private, so we can’t charge her with anything. Greyback took it upon himself to discourage your going through with publishing.’

I purse my lips, silently cursing McFarlen, and ask, ‘What’ll happen now?’

Weasley shrugs. ‘We’ll charge him, obviously, with intended murder, breaking and entering, and, of course, for all of his crimes during the war and even before that. It will probably take a long while to gather all the evidence and such, seeing as there’s so much of it, so in the meantime we’re holding him in a secure prison with two guards ‘round the clock. As for your book...’ He hesitates before he looks me straight in the eye. ‘This was almost a warning of sorts. If you publish, you have to take into account that others out there may get similar ideas.’

My pulse is sluggish, blood thick in my veins as I nod. The movement is wooden, mechanical, a marionette on a thin little string, but I’m nodding. ‘I know.’

‘Thank you, Auror Weasley. If that’s all you have to tell us?’

He nods, closes the file in his hands and backs up a step. ‘The Ministry will keep in touch about this case. I wish you a speedy recovery, Ms Malfoy.’

The door shuts behind him.

I don’t want to look at Astoria, don’t want to be reminded of what my stubbornness has done. I don’t want to know that I’ll have to back out, to burn the work I spent so long on, to tell Harry that it was all for nothing because I will _not_ endanger my family. I will not be my father’s son in that way--will not, refuse to be, and even if a book is no Dark Lord, it is still dangerous.

The light touch of fingertips against my wrist startles me; soft, comforting, probing, and she wraps her fingers around me, squeezing until I finally break and look back at her.

Eyes steady, she smiles at me, a smirk, a grin, and I can’t comprehend. ‘Well, I suppose you’ll just have to publish now. That was a challenge, I should think.’

'Astoria, you can’t be--’

‘Oh, no, I am almost _deadly_ serious, Draco.’

I stare at her.

She pushes herself into a sitting position, wincing but waving me off, and she’s strong, so much stronger than I am. Calm, controlled, and she’s grown these past few years, matured. She’s beautiful.

‘No, Draco, I _want_ you to publish this book, do you understand me? I want you to do it. People need to know and they have to see. You can’t let this one thing stop you. You’re not weak; you’re the most stubborn person I know sometimes. This time, you _will_ have my support, wholeheartedly, because I won’t allow this to stop you, not after all you worked on.’

‘But--’

‘I can take care of myself, Draco, if I know to be on my guard.’

‘You can’t be on your guard every moment for the rest of your life.’

‘I don’t have to be. And fine, if you’re so worried about what will happen to me because I’m your wife, I have a solution.’

I shake my head. ‘There _is_ no solution to this, except retracting the publication.’

‘We can divorce.’

Her gaze doesn’t waver, her voice doesn’t shake, and my fingers seem to spasm.

‘Wh--’ I swallow, shake my head, blink to clear my eyes. ‘Excuse me, but did you just suggest we get a divorce?’

Tori smiles at me, softly now, and she squeezes my wrist again, gentle, possibly apologetic. ‘I know you had to have thought about it at some point. You’re content, Draco, but you could be happy. And if I’m right at all, I know who could do that for you. To be quite honest, I’m sure I could be happier too. You know, for once I might actually get to have sex with someone who enjoys it. Close your mouth, darling, it’s unbecoming to let it hang about like that. You’ll catch Nargles.’ She smirks at me.

‘But... why?’

‘I’d be safer, if you published the book and we weren’t deemed as close, wouldn’t I? Who would go and attack the woman you divorced?’

‘You don’t understand the Death Eaters, Astoria. Not the way I do.’ I shake my head. ‘They’d still go after you, just in case. I can’t publish this book. Think of Scorpius, for Salazar’s sake. Who’ll protect him?’

‘Harry could.’

Here’s the crux of the matter, then. Because I think about it, I do--I think about how he doesn’t judge, how he helps, how he looks at me sometimes. I think about his dedication to his kids, to his family, to friends.

I think about that odd thing I feel when I meet his eyes.

But...

‘Astoria, I _can’t_. Think of our reputations, think of what Scorpius will have to go through, and our parents--and there’s no guarantee you’d be safe. Do you understand that? I can’t just....’

‘Are you refusing me what I want? Because, believe me, darling, much as I like you now, you and I aren’t cut out to belong to each other, body, mind, magic, and soul, no matter what vows we took.’ She leans forward to press her forehead against mine. ‘Think about it, will you? And publish that damn book or I’ll do it for you, whether you like it or not.’

-x-

Harry passes Lily off to me and reaches out to take Astoria’s hand. She grins at him, steps forward to let him kiss her cheek. ‘You’re looking better.’

‘I am, aren’t I?’

Ginny stands back, at my side, hovering uncertainly until Astoria smiles at her too, and then they’re embracing, and I realise again just how important this friendship between all of us has become. Hell, even our children are used to one another. This is a kind of peace I hadn’t expected, the kind of peace I feel with Pansy and Millicent. They’re all part of my life now.

Harry moves back to take Lily again, turning away from them to look out the window. ‘How’re you holding up?’ he asks. His voice is quiet, low.

I lean against the wall at his side and watch him, study the edge of his jaw, the rough line of his hair at the collar of his shirt. ‘I’m okay, now. Astoria gave me quite a talking to and managed to break me down, so I’m fine.’

He glances at me curiously. ‘Break you--?’

I look down at the floorboards, glance at Astoria and Ginny, and sigh before I meet his eyes. ‘We’re getting divorced, for her safety, even though one might think marriage was safer.’

Harry’s eyes go wide and he stares at me. ‘You’re...’ I watch the slow smile start at the corners of his lips, just a hint, before it’s spreading across his face, cheeky and--why is he so pleased about this?

But I know why he’s pleased, really, can hear him asking me that question a few weeks ago, and if I’m entirely honest with myself, I might admit that I feel the same, somewhere deep down and barely acknowledged. For now, I can’t allow it, but someday... I will. It’s almost inevitable, really.

‘I think,’ he says, ‘it’s time you and Astoria became patrons at _Protegus._ ’

-x-

**Author's Note:**

> This work never would have gotten done without the help and input of my two lovely betas (because I never stop raving):
> 
> *[sordid_humors](http://sordid-humors.livejournal.com/) beta-ed this monster three days before deadline, had the patience to take care of all my excess commas, and made so many useful, insightful suggestions that my head spun. Divine being, zhe is.
> 
> *[mentalistecbm](http://mentalistecbm.livejournal.com/) spent two hours on a skype call helping me plan a timeline, suggested plot developments, said innocuous things which made me think too much, and looked this over so many times I think I lost count. She’s a goddess of all things dear to me, and she’s the dearest.


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